Miss Sassy and I have a standing date for deep-water aquasize at noon on Sundays. It’s become an enjoyable part of my week, and it’s contributing to my plan to turn thirty in two weeks (yikes) with a butt that doesn’t haunt my dreams. While it might have been possible to actually snorkel to the pool over the last highly rainy week, we set out too late again and had to drive.
In the change room after class, when my legs were as wobbly as leftover jello shots, I realized halfway through toweling off that my sandals (the only footwear I brought to the pool) were still out on the deck, tucked neatly below a bench.
Wrapped snugly in my huge towel, which I was sure I could hold on to as I made the quick trip to the bench and back–after all, it was just a wee pair of flip flops–I told Miss Sassy I needed to retrieve my footwear, and made a beeline poolside.
All went well until I turned back toward the change room, holding my sandals by their handles. For some reason, perhaps because the treads on my bare feet were worn past the point of no return by that brief unplanned expedition, I unexpectedly lost my footing on the wet tiles. I skidded and bowed with an elegance unseen since Ice Capades 1993, making a fluid half spin and whipping my dripping hair in a wide arc. Three things did not happen.
I did not actually fall down. I attribute this victory to my nimble teacher reflexes: junior high kids will eat you alive if you aren’t faster than they are. I’m like a cat, folks: a cat.
I did not drop my flip flops. I was successful largely because my sandals were light and did not affect my balance, although I did crush one in my paw as my whole body clenched while I was trying to keep my balance.
I did not lose my towel. This was the greatest miracle of the week, truly. I’m certain a divine intervention prevented me from flashing my business to the entire pool, which was filled with children starting swimming lessons and bordered by parents talking on their cell phones. I do remember thinking, “towel-TOWEL-towel-TOWEL!” when perhaps my survival instinct might have intervened to advise prioritizing keeping my skull from hitting the tiles above remaining swathed in terrycloth.
In the end, I think my gut told me that at least if I spilled my brains across the pool deck, people would say nice things and eat spaghetti at my funeral. I am well aware that I would have died of embarrassment had I dropped my drapery, and then people would have shown up at my funeral just to point and giggle at my urn while eating noodles. I suppose I opted for a funeral where I wasn’t a posthumous laughing stock.
My chiropractor insists flip flops are deadly, but I don’t think she anticipates folks nearly dying when they’re not even wearing the damn things.
At first, I thought the whole incident left me unscathed. Monday morning, I woke up a little stiff. Tuesday morning, that’s today, I could not roll over in bed unassisted. My very nearly fatal incident poolside left pretty much every joint on my left side (except my ankle, strangely) torqued right out of whack. Yes, that includes my jaw and several of my toes. It was a long, long day at school, but at least I had a new bottle of Aleve in my desk to nurse me through it. I managed to arrange a near-emergency appointment with my chiropractor, so things are looking up, even if I can’t look all the way to the left yet.
I am convinced my flip flops are trying to kill me. I’ve locked them in the front porch for a few days to let them know who’s boss, but I think they’ve lost their pool visitation privileges for the next while.
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