A Lesson In Poise

After spending a few (very fun) days in Memphis with my brother, sister-in-law and nephews, the little man and I packed up Thursday morning and drove over to Jackson, Tennessee to see our friends the Cottrells. We initially thought that we would hang out for a little bit at their house and then head home later in the day, but of course that didn’t happen because, well, we talk too much. So we decided to stick around for supper, spend the night, and then drive home early Friday morning. It was a perfectly delightful plan.

After supper we went back to the house, put on pajamas, and settled in for some visitin’. I don’t remember where we were in our conversation – somewhere between the meanings of people’s names and who is currently kicking our tails at Words With Friends – but at one point I realized that I’d forgotten to get something out of the car, so I ran back to the bedroom, grabbed my keys and clicked the “unlock” button as I walked toward the front door. I turned on the porch light because it was pitch-black outside, and I silently commended myself for not trying to make my way to my car in the dark.

The whole “turning on the light” thing might not seem like a big deal to most of you, but as someone who has never met an object she couldn’t trip over or smash into, I am keenly aware of the importance of well-lit surroundings. I can’t even tell you how many literal and figurative obstacles have been strewn along the path to grace and poise in my life. There was that hole in the hook rug that interfered with my back somersault when I was five. There was that uncooperative gymnastics mat during my early-80s quest for a front handspring. There was the complete absence of upper-body strength that resulted in my 16 year-old self falling into a pond after a misguided attempt at conquering a rope swing. There were the tricky wedge sandals – coupled with an overactive yellow lab – that sent me flailing down the basement stairs back in 2001.

And in The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Ten? There was the Cottrells’ front porch.

Honestly, I thought I was doing pretty well as I made my way out to the car this past Thursday night, but in a completely unexpected turn of events, the edge of my right flip-flop got caught on a little lip at the top of the steps, and I tripped. As you may or may not know from personal experience, if you trip at the top of a staircase, there is a very good chance indeed that you are going to fall down that staircase. And that is exactly what I proceeded to do – in what felt like slow motion – until I finally, at long and merciful last, came to very awkward stop at the bottom of the stairs. I landed on my right arm, but thanks to my left big toe – which managed to scrape its way down every single step, thus making a mockery of my OPI Parlevouz polish – I sort of skidded into my landing (which was certainly preferable to crashing into the ground after being airborn for five seconds). Granted, I was COMPLETELY MORTIFIED by my clumsiness, but I wasn’t really any worse for the wear – except for a ruined pedicure, some sah-weet pavement scrapes on my right forearm, and a very attractive gravel imprint underneath my right eye.

After I composed myself enough to stand up, I very carefully walked back inside and found a mirror so that I could see whether or not I looked like I’d been in a prizefight. About that time Travis walked back through the living room – he and Angela had been putting the kids to bed – and I guess I looked a little rattled because he stopped and tilted his head like he was wondering what was going on with me. So I said, “I fell down your front steps,” and he said, “You what?” and I said, “I was going to the car, and I fell down your steps,” and he said, “Are you okay?” and I said, “Yes, I think so, except for these scratches on my arm and my face – and the fact that the polish got scraped off my toes” and then he said, “Oh, I am so sorry!” and he tried to look very concerned as he said, “How did that happen, exactly?” and when I started to tell him we got very tickled and for the next five minutes we laughed until we could neither talk nor breathe.

Good times. Precious memories.

The next morning I was almost good as new, and after breakfast Alex and I got ready to go home. Travis wanted us to follow him to a donut shop that has what he vows and declares are the best cake donuts in the universe so that we could buy some for D. I thought it was a great idea, mainly because D was super-busy with work last week, not to mention that he is a deeply devoted fan of the cake donut and always on the look-out for excellence in the cake donut field. I totally get it because I have many of the same feelings for fried chicken.

So I zipped up the suitcase, gave Angela a hug, and when I got to the foyer Travis said, “Hey, I’ll get that” and grabbed my suitcase while he opened the front door. We were joking about the need to be abundantly and exceedingly careful given my acrobatic descent down the stairs the night before, and then I stepped onto the porch, misjudged the distance, and the next thing I knew I heard a really loud pop and felt all the blood drain from my face.

Oh yes I did.

Somehow I managed to not cry and stay calm and say, “Um, I just did something really, really, REALLY bad to my ankle, I’m not even kidding, I just really hurt my ankle, I need to sit down right now.” So I sat down and Travis called for Angela and I kept thinking about that popping sound and decided that I had never been more nauseated in my life. Travis was asking me four or nineteen questions about what they could do to help and all I could think was that he wouldn’t be quite so eager to help if he knew that I was seriously about to throw up all over his shoes.

Angela came to the rescue with a big bag of ice, and that ice is what filled me with resolve that I might be able to stand up and maybe even walk out of the Cottrells’ foyer at some point before Alex graduated from high school. After about ten minutes I discovered that I could still move my ankle, and once I stood up, I hobbled back to the bedroom so that I could rest for a little while (per Angela’s orders) and hopefully determine that I was dealing with a sprain and not a broken foot.

In the midst of all the craziness, I couldn’t help but be a teensy bit entertained by the way Angela and Travis responded. Angela was, as always, level, calm, prayerful and practical. She offered sound advice. She brought me a towel in case the ice pack got too cold against my skin. The sound of her voice made me feel like everything was going to be okay.

Travis, on the other hand, was a little more rattled by the whole ordeal. He apologized ninety-four times, never you mind that IT WASN’T EVEN REMOTELY HIS FAULT. He asked me how I was feeling every one to three and a half minutes. He sang “Froggie Went A-Courtin'” in an effort to lighten the mood. And at some point he apparently called the donut shop, because I have a very vivid memory of him walking toward me and saying, “Really, I don’t want you to worry about the fact that we didn’t make it to the donut shop, because I just called them and they don’t even have any of the cake donuts today.”

PERFECT. Because do you know what was just bothering me to no end in light of my ever-swelling ankle? THE CAKE DONUTS.

Oh, bless him.

I ended up falling asleep for an hour or so, and the nausea was gone for the most part when I woke up. Since I had pretty good back and forth movement in my ankle, I decided that it made sense to go ahead and drive home before the swelling got worse. We had a mercifully uneventful trip home, and once I got in the house and elevated my foot and surveyed the damage for the first time in a few hours, I felt a little queasy again.