The Death of Me Yet

For the majority of my life, I’ve been a pretty physical person. Sports, running, jumping, playing, all things I’ve always loved to do. I’ve been a figure skater for over half of my life. Screw the frilly skating dresses, it’s a very physical sport, where people are injured all the time – so many of my skating friends have had broken bones, stress fractures, concussions. Not exactly a “safe” sport. I played several years of high school soccer. And if you think you’ve seen some pissed off teenage girls, let me tell you, they’ve got nothing on female high school soccer players. Seriously, this?

Not surprising. Girls are bitches.

So I think it’s pretty miraculous that I’ve gone my whole life without a broken bone, concussion, decapatitation or violent hair pulls.

However, I think our basement stairs are going to be the death of me. Ever since we started renovating our main bathroom, we’ve been running downstairs to use the bathroom, shower, grab some Advil, just about everything. Since October. It’s getting old. And I’m shocked at how many times I’ve actually fallen up the stairs since then. My foot gets caught and boom! Down I go. Usually it’s just a loud thud, no harm no foul.

But the other night, I had had it. I fell, both of my hands went out to catch me. And both of my wrists cracked. Not good. I moaned. I groaned. Derek came to look down on me. Well, not down on me, but I was laying on the stairs. He was above me.


“What’s wrong with these stairs?” I whined.

“Um…nothing,” he said with a wry grin. 

“These are the only stairs I ever fall up. I think there’s something wrong with them. My wrists hurt. I could’ve broken my wrists. I hate these stairs. Whine, whine whine.”

You get the idea. I’ve spent my life defying death in the name of sports (no, I haven’t) and are basement steps have my number. I can’t wait until our bathroom remodel is complete. I’m never going downstairs again.


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