I had such good intentions of carrying out my full body metamorphosis into Mother Theresa this week, as well.
I’m going to have to postpone that change for a while now.
The problem with starting any major life changes at the beginning of the week is that the week starts with a Monday.
And last Monday was doomed from the start.
Because I fell down the stairs.
Of course, I’d like to have an interesting excuse for landing in the hallway like a punctured blow up doll, (like I was still drunk from the night before or I’d found something other than sherbet under Kurt’s bed and had to test it as a responsible parent), but the truth is that either I’m just incredibly clumsy or my reflexes are getting slower.
The old man says I’m just getting fucking old. He’s always there to prop me up when I’m feeling down.
More probably, it was because I was still half-asleep – because you know how deeply you sleep when you’re busy over-sleeping.
But that fall REALLY HURT – like, ‘I want to cry’ hurt, but there’s no-one here to look after me, so what’s the point? Why does it hurt so much now when you fall over? And what’s with the car crash bruising?
They don’t tell you about that in the books about middle age.
There can be nothing to match the elegance of a middle-aged woman in her stained cream dressing gown tumbling down a flight of stairs. You’d think my extra body weight would have come in useful for once and helped cushion my fall, but I’m convinced it just added momentum; and I landed in my heap on my knees rather than my muffin top anyway.
It was Monday – so no real explanation needed.
Maybe I should thank the postman, otherwise Kurt would have scored himself another detention for being late. My body obviously knew it was Monday and just didn’t want to get out of bed that morning and so subconsciously ignored the alarm. Fortunately, (or unfortunately for my knees), the postman decided to wake the whole suburb by ringing on our old fashioned doorbell a million unnecessary times and alerting the entire fucking dog neighbourhood that we had a parcel at 7.30am.
One minute I was in the Land of Nod with Chris Hemsworth and the next minute the Princess Spoodle had leapt on my stomach in fright, which sent me racing down the stairs like some mad woman to save us from whatever disaster was happening behind our front door.
But in my rush to save the family, and being the anti-heroine that I am, I managed to miss the last two steps of the stairwell, because obviously my limbs weren’t awake enough to connect with my brain at that time of the morning.
(And nor were my hands, apparently, because they were nowhere to be seen when I needed them to cushion my fall).
So I landed REALLY, REALLY hard, slap, bang, crash on my knees, on our cold, tiled floor – dazed, confused, and already fucked off with the world by 7.35am on Monday morning.
I’m still recovering, thanks for asking.
The postman looked surprised when he saw me open the door. Then scared. I don’t think he will be ringing the doorbell quite so eagerly in future.
Especially not on a Monday morning.