When a person is as clumsy as I can be, accidents, falls, missteps, and a variety of other perils are just waiting to happen.

One happened this morning.

I’d taken out the trash and was walking back to the house when I noticed a pile of dried whirly-birds that had fallen from one of our maple trees into the downspout area of our guttering.

They looked nasty, so I scooped up two handfulls and carried them back to the trashcan.

With my hands full, I used my foot to lift the lid off the can, but the lid snapped right back down. So I tried again.


The can moved, I lost my balance, and there — in front of the entire neighborhood — I toppled backward into the street.

My tailbone took the brunt of my fall; however, both elbows, my palms, and even the back of my head decided to get into the act.

Recalling a much earlier stumble (one that necessitated nine stitches), I brought my hands up and applied pressure to my head. Yep, it was bleeding.

My mom (bless her heart for not panicking!) washed the spot with antiseptic soap, assured me it “didn’t look too bad,” and urged me to call my doctor “just in case.”

My son (who hates all things medical) drove me to the urgent care clinic. They took one look at me and rushed me ahead of the others, who didn’t have head wounds.

After administering a series of weird tests — “follow my finger, raise your eyebrows, smile, frown, stick your tongue out and wag it side to side” — and after talking to me to determine my lucidity and taking my vitals, they pronounced me okay to leave.

No stitches needed.

They offered pain medication, but I said I’d stick with Tylenol (no sense compounding my pain with nausea!).

So I’m trying to lay low for the rest of the day, take it easy, and stay out of more trouble.

I’m fortunate it wasn’t any worse, don’t you think?