So what happens when a 50-year-old woman trips up the steps, collides with a brick wall with her head, and falls to the ground?
To paraphrase a line from Charlotte’s Web: “That’s some fall.”
“Boy, howdy, that’s a real humdinger, right there!” exclaimed my mom looking at the goose egg growing rapidly out of my head. “Get some ice?”
So what happens when a 45-year-old woman takes off on a bicycle wearing flip flops, a tank top and little else, because obviously she left her common sense in another part of the state?
There’s something about a large woman hurtling over the handlebars of a three-speed Pee Wee Herman-inspired looking bicycle into a brush pile that bring the phrase “That’s a doozy” to mind. (I think the ER doctor said that upon observing the rapidly growing bruises all over my body.)
In both cases, I was the one responsible for both of these close encounters with objects I didn’t really want to be close to and both of which left me woozy.
And all bruisy.
I may be a floozy, but I’m still woozy, so who can tell.
I’m not sure what caused my recent spill. I wasn’t listening to the Culture Club hit I’ll Tumble 4 Ya or Tracy Byrd’s Watermelon Crawl.
Even though my sister enjoyed the meatloaf at Hilton Head Diner, I wasn’t inspired to Do Anything For Love even though I enjoy Meatloaf. On occasion.
Mom was along for the ride and I’m pretty sure she was the one who played the Sufaris hit Wipeout on the jukebox, but I’m sure she didn’t want her baby to go Free Fallin’ even though she knows I love Tom Petty.
So who do I blame?
I can’t blame Trisha Yearwood for her song Down On My Knees even though she stole Garth Brooks away from me. I haven’t been on my knees–unless I’ve fallen–since the “Great Knee Blowout of 1987” occurred.
I might be able to blame my left knee which has humdingered The Beatles You Say You Want A Revolution since 1987 in protest because its carried most of the load for 30 years.
Or it could have been the $3 pair of new shoes I bought at Walmart? You get what you pay for, right? I could blame Elvis Presley because he didn’t loan me his Blue Suede Shoes. At least I Couldn’t Help Falling In Love with him–he’s still dreamy to me–the skinny Elvis, anyway.
I did learn one thing from my doozy of a first accident: Bang Your Head from my favorite 80s hairband Quiet Riot has taken on a whole new meaning. Literally.
And I’ve stopped wearing flipflops.
You still probably don’t know the difference between a doozy and a humdinger. Don’t worry, I don’t either.
But I do remember my stomach gurgling right before we got back to our vacation rental.
Maybe it was the meatloaf.
It’s All Coming Back To Me Now.