It’s only May, barely a month into springtime, and already there’s been bloodshed. Copious amounts of blood, in fact. All mine. By the quart, or the pint, at least. Last month, I took a header on a sidewalk and opened a deep gash on my forehead.
Head injuries are a mother and they bleed like the dickens. Trust me, I’ve had dozens of them; they gush. Over the course of my clumsy lifetime I’ve knocked myself unconscious twice, maybe three times — who can remember?
So you’d think I’d be cautious and pay attention to my surroundings in an effort to avoid disaster. Nope. On Tuesday, a truly glorious spring afternoon, I went for a long, meandering walk. I zipped hither and yon; I zigged and I zagged; I frolicked and cavorted. I was drunk on sunshine and joyous abandon and in my euphoric state narrowly missed getting beaned by the automatic gate in a parking lot.
I didn’t even notice its existence — until it brushed the back of my head. Oy. You know, I shouldn’t leave the house without a helmet. And kneepads. Honest to God, I’m always en route to an accident … somewhere, somehow.
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