The Injured Party

I don't know when or how it started.  But started and it has continued for years.  When I watch the Olympics and an iceskater falls, I reflexively holler out, "Splat!"  Same thing during my short-lived stint as a watcher of bullriding.  "Splat!" if the cowboy didn't last the full eight seconds.  In public settings, I try to control the reflex.  With partial success.

Today wasn't a good day.  I've got an interpersonal conflict going on in a group that is important to me, and I'm in a position of having had to make a decision that was going to evoke hard feelings from one part of the group or the other.  And there are a couple of pressing deadlines at work.  And there was a glitch in the school email system, so an important communication wasn't received.  Grumble, grumble.

Frankly, I was glad when it was time to go down and get some lunch before a session someone had scheduled where we would all share tips we'd figured out around a new software program we're working with.  I got my salad and a modest portion of pasta and was heading, with my tray, to get a beverage.  And suddenly I was on the floor.  On my bum.  With pain in my toe, my knee, and my hip.  All on the right side.  I sat for a bit to settle myself and then a great big assistant teacher (the guy who played Jesus in "Spelling Bee" last year, fittingly) gently helped  me to my feet.  I hurt.  A coworker walked with me to a place where I could sit and rest; a friend went to get me a fresh lunch.  It might have been worse:  I could have hit my head.  I could have fractured my hip.  Heck, my dress might have flown up!  "Grace personified!" I thought -- that's what my late mother would have exclaimed.  Advil was dispensed.  A form was filled out.  I was assured that I'll feel worse tomorrow.  And then we held our meeting.

I sure hope someone hollered "Splat!"  I deserved it.