Not my finest hour.

Sigh. I fall a lot. It’s not the alcohol or the drugs. I just fall. And I always have. I have weak ankles, I know this. I found this out when all my ballerina dreams were dashed because I couldn’t go on pointe. I had waited for 10 years and then I just couldn’t do it. I tried and tried, I did strengthening exercise and therapy and I still couldn’t. But by then it didn’t matter. Not only was I aware that my ankles were weak…they were too.

I take a spill about once a year or so. Oh, sometimes I go for years without one but you know, on average it’s about once a year and generally when I am on my way to some even that requires the use of ankles…a bowling party, the renaissance faire, stuff like that. Things that need walking and standing abilities. But, having taken the fall so many times, I am generally not fazed by it. Keeping in motion can keep the swelling down and when you have been told by a sports therapist that “oh my god your ligaments and tendons don’t even seem to be attached to anything anymore how the hell does your foot stay on?”, then, you know, you get used to it.

So on my way to the grocery store for lunch today I stepped on a rock. I think I stepped on a rock. It could have been the ghost of a rock, or a penny…maybe a ladybug carcass…it really doesn’t take much. I took the fall with my usual modicum of grace, which is to say, none at all and landed on my hands and knees. A few cars slowed down, I suspect to laugh at me, but I just kind of caught my breath, there on my hands and knees, for a second, gathered my scattered wits and got up. I hobbled back to the office, got in my car and went to the store, bought a wrap and some sushi and drove back to work.

And to think, I wanted to be a ballerina. Clearly, the weak ankles aren’t the only thing that kept me from that dream.