After the Great Deck Debacle of July 2009, I once more decided to see if I could, perhaps, learn to fly.
I'm here to tell you that 48 year old women can't fly. Try as she might, this one just can't get her butt airborne for more than a couple of seconds. Maybe it's the middle age spread. Or maybe the laws of physics apply more unilaterally the older you get, but there you have it.
No flying was gonna happen last Saturday afternoon.
Let me explain. We were at the cottage and surprisingly (as in bowled over and stunned into speechlessness) the weather was good. I decided to sweep the porch. See that little black square in the white area there? That's the front door. The porch is maybe four feet wide on two levels, maybe four inches high each.
So there I stood, sweeping, facing the door (yeah, I know that was very bright, blame it on the fact that I hadn't seen the sun it what seems like eons - she types as the rain pours down. Again.)
As I backed up bit by bit I got to the end of that level of the porch. This tends to happen when you back up. I took one more step back, expecting to land on the same level, but, oops I was past all that and my foot landed 4 inches lower. Yeah, you do see where I'm going here.
As I tried to regain my balance on the second level of the porch, I stepped off there too.
'Cause dontcha know, I'm still trying to learn how to fly.
And so I fell three feet straight down, tried to regain my footing, didn't (of course, because then there'd be no blog post would there?), and tumbled halfway down the hill in front of the cottage. The hill that is flanked by 42 (count 'em! - 42) steps to make it up to the damned front door.
Luckily I came to a full and sudden stop on one of the numerous rocks that jut up from the ground otherwise I'd have ended up in the street and probably rolled down the hill into the lake.
And you know how it is, lakes, mud, bleh, so thank whatever deities live at the cottage for that rock.
And no, there will be no picture of monster bruises because they were all pretty much medium sized. Thus, I'm once more coloured blue and green and yellow over numerous parts of my anatomy. People must think I'm abused.
I'm not, I'm simply pathetic.
I can't help but wonder though, when in my life was the last time I've been bruise and cut free. Pristine as it were. Probably the day of my birth.
Yes, pathetic indeed.
But I have finally come to the realization that I'll never learn how to fly. More's the pity actually.