Like millions of others, I’ve been watching the Olympics. I’m not much of a sports fan (except for baseball. Go Bucks!). But I will tune in now and again, just to see what’s going on.
It doesn’t matter the sport, I’m not really interested in any of them. But often I get caught up in the competitive spirit of the events and, before I know it, that quick glimpse has stretched to a couple of hours.
Years ago when I watched Olympians who were my age, I’d think, “I could do that!”
And I honestly thought that if I wanted to, I could.
Now the Olympians are my grandkids’ ages, so I assumed my “moment” had passed. Until the other night when I watched an official at the Olympics trip, stumble and fall as he walked to a judges’ table.
The gentleman wasn’t hurt, just embarrassed.
“Too bad falling isn’t an Olympic sport,” one of the commentators quipped. “He’d be headed for gold.”
And I thought to myself, “Nope! Definitely not.”
I know falling and as far as falls go, his feeble tumble wouldn’t have even gotten him a spot on the USA Falling Team. I, on the other hand, am such an accomplished faller, I’m sure I’d end up with at least a bronze medal.
I coulda been a contender
I make that statement with confidence. I’ve been a faller all my life.
When I was young, my exceptional talent was falling up the stairs. In my preteen years, it was my specialty. I’d race up the stairs to my bedroom and about halfway to the top would catch a toe and end up in a sprawl.
I can’t begin to count the number of times I was ordered back downstairs and told to go up again “like a lady this time, so you don’t fall.” Well, guess what? Even ladies fall up the stairs.
Eventually, I graduated from falling upstairs to falling on flat surfaces. And for no apparent reason. Maybe walking across the yard and getting my feet tangled in a branch. Or the shadow of a branch.
Sometimes all it takes to trip me up is the fringe of a rug. I tripped over nothing once while walking into the Chequit and ended up with bloody knees and elbows. And I was wearing a dress! Please, don’t try to picture it. It wasn’t pretty.
Anchors aweigh
One of my better falls happened when I was casually strolling across a Navy base parking lot in Key West while carrying a piece of pumpkin pie on a china plate embossed with an anchor and the warning on the bottom that I would be charged $25 if the plate wasn’t returned.
It was after dark when my feet tangled with each other and down I went again, hitting my knees, my palms, and my chin. I stuck that solid three-point landing and all my contact points were scraped and studded with gravel. But worse, that china plate had shattered around a big pumpkin pie splat.
Fortunately, the Navy did not charge me for destroying the plate after I threw myself on their mercy and showed them my multiple boo-boos. They just wanted me to get my oozy, scabby self out of their office.
Three years later, I could still make out the rust-colored smear of pumpkin pie roadkill on that parking lot.
Taking the gold
My best fall though, happened when I was on a first date with a young man I’d just met. He took me to a car show being held in the Cleveland Colosseum, a big, beautiful entertainment arena with an expansive double flight of stairs.
Since it was the first date and I liked the guy, I wanted to make a good impression. I was dressed as one did in those days, spike heels and a long, yellow wool coat.
When I got to the top of the stairs, I took one step, and away I went, plummeting downward, like an Olympic luger, my wool coat acting as a sled. My date, who’d been holding my hand, never let go and kept the pace down all those steps right beside me until I landed in a yellow heap at the very bottom.
I wasn’t hurt, but my red face sure didn’t go well with my yellow coat. My date helped me back on my feet, shook his head, and said, “Well, that was poetry in motion.”
He married me anyway. So I guess you could say I did win the gold.
