Cherryot Gymnastics

Storage trip update from Saturday.

So, I’m standing on top of my Cherryot, ¹ applying bungees to things I wish I didn’t own, and I’m being careful to step only on the reinforced areas of the roof, and avoid the sunroof entirely, when my foot slipped.

Now, I was wearing my Sketchers which are really comfortable to take my nightly walks in. But I discovered, rudely, that they don’t have um…much…traction. At least not on top of the Cherryot.

So in that surreal, slow-motion movie moment kind of way, I began to fall, feet first, sliding down the side…not so bad, really. I could have slipped and fallen backward and landed on my back. So As my feet are striking the ground, i am at the wrong angle, and I just lunge forward…not in a dive-roll, like I did that time in Colorado Springs 8 years ago, on my apartment stairs…that was truly inspired, and of Olympic quality—no, this fall was awkward. I landed on my feet first, then my knees and hands…skidding ever so slightly.

You want to know the first thing i thought after that? I mean, I was feeling pain already, and I had just recovered from a ruptured disc in my neck a few short months ago…but you know what my first thought was?

I hope no one saw that.

(My friend Tanya said that’s called “Pride goeth AFTER a fall.”)

I actually looked around quickly to see if anyone was about. I would have bled a few extra drops, just so I could take the time to make sure no one saw me do something so patently ungraceful.

The second thing i did was assess the damage. After realizing I could still stand up and was mobile, the next thing i noticed was that I had a nasty splinter in my fuck-you finger. I don’t know when that happened.

I went back to work on storage, but knew that i was done for the day. I had to wrap it all up and come back later to do anything i was planning to do then.

So when I finally got home, I groaned my way out of the Cherryot, knowing I was not going to unload that stuff this time. It could wait until tomorrow. My joints and muscles hurt more than the minor scrapes to my knees and palms. I was just going to stick a French Bread pizza in the oven, take a hot shower and ibuprofen, put peroxide and triple antibiotic on my wounds, wrap up my wrists for support, ice my back, and just lie down and read.

And that’s what I did.

Until now, of course, when i could no longer resist coming over here and writing something.

__________________________
¹ the nickname i gave my red Blazer

 

Slippity Doo Dah

(or, “I Don’t Love my OTHER Shoes”)

I’ve always known that certain footwear was dangerous. The most common culprit in my mind is the high heel-pump-stiletto family of shoes. Aside from the usual hazard of balancing on something so precarious as a shoe with a peg under it (although Pirate-amputees seemed to have mastered it), or in the case of a stiletto, (essentially walking on a PENCIL), there is a profound discomfort to be had in the awkward position of the foot, and the disfiguration that takes place as a woman gets older while partaking of this footwear. Have you looked at 50 or 60 year old woman’s foot after she’s worn high heels her whole life? It looks like pointy shoes with skin on it, or like her feet have been stricken with a genetic defect. It is beyond comprehension that a woman will do this to herself, often only to make her legs look attractive for men. Not only is it a health hazard for what it does to one’s knees, but it doesn’t allow a woman to run…and i feel that this is something that women ought to be able to do, for many reasons, which i won’t get into here.

But, regardless, I was convinced that a MAN invented the high heel, and as i Googled it to find out, i discovered that this was true, but they invented them for MEN. It seems they needed a shoe that wouldn’t slip in the stirrups while riding horseback. Then the style became more of a fashion statement for royalty in the 1500’s. Then a female member of royalty adopted the style and women began to wear heels after that. Women discovered that wearing heels made their gate and calves more alluring and sensualized…for the benefit of admiring males.

But even high hells have nothing on the footwear that graces the tootsies of homebodies nation-wide. Nothing is more treacherous than that unassuming pair of footwear that can be found in every household…often they exude comfort, they are the very essence of comfort and repose, but secretly, this footwear is an accident waiting to happen.

I speak of the open heeled house slipper. They don’t call it a “slipper” for nothing. Don’t be fooled by the padded faux lambs wool, and the cushiness of its sole. Any number of things can go awry with these hideous houseshoes, these sinister slippers. There is absolutely nothing holding them on your feet except your good intentions. You can be taking a step and one of them will slip off, fold over, and crinkle your toes. They can slide off kilter and make you twist your ankle; it’s even worse if you’re on uneven terrain. Many homes are one-level, and one can scoot along without lifting one’s feet, enjoying the gleeful combination of static electricity and unsuspecting cats, (Here kitty kitty…ZZZZZAP!) but this just lulls you into a false sense of security. For eventually, you will lift a foot and it will all be over. You’ll find yourself stumbling, mashing the cat’s tail, dropping your fresh cup of coffee, banging your head on a railing and cracking every toe-knuckle you have. And squishing your cream cheese bagel into your right ear. It can be even worse than that.

For instance, I am writing this at the foot of my staircase.

I’m going to need a few more minutes before attempting to get up. And when I do, I’m going to put on some sneakers, and use my open-heeled house slippers as cat toys. Maybe they can put their little arms inside them when the basement gets too chilly. Or maybe I’ll put them in my lap and use them for hand warmers, myself. But they will never again go on my feet. Especially not right now, since I can’t bend over without aggravating those seven slipped discs in my back.

 

Slippity Doo Dah

(or, “I Don’t Love my OTHER Shoes”)

I’ve always known that certain footwear was dangerous. The most common culprit in my mind is the high heel-pump-stiletto family of shoes. Aside from the usual hazard of balancing on something so precarious as a shoe with a peg under it (although Pirate-amputees seemed to have mastered it), or in the case of a stiletto, (essentially walking on a PENCIL), there is a profound discomfort to be had in the awkward position of the foot, and the disfiguration that takes place as a woman gets older while partaking of this footwear. Have you looked at 50 or 60 year old woman’s foot after she’s worn high heels her whole life? It looks like pointy shoes with skin on it, or like her feet have been stricken with a genetic defect. It is beyond comprehension that a woman will do this to herself, often only to make her legs look attractive for men. Not only is it a health hazard for what it does to one’s knees, but it doesn’t allow a woman to run…and i feel that this is something that women ought to be able to do, for many reasons, which i won’t get into here.

But, regardless, I was convinced that a MAN invented the high heel, and as i Googled it to find out, i discovered that this was true, but they invented them for MEN. It seems they needed a shoe that wouldn’t slip in the stirrups while riding horseback. Then the style became more of a fashion statement for royalty in the 1500’s. Then a female member of royalty adopted the style and women began to wear heels after that. Women discovered that wearing heels made their gate and calves more alluring and sensualized…for the benefit of admiring males.

But even high hells have nothing on the footwear that graces the tootsies of homebodies nation-wide. Nothing is more treacherous than that unassuming pair of footwear that can be found in every household…often they exude comfort, they are the very essence of comfort and repose, but secretly, this footwear is an accident waiting to happen.

I speak of the open heeled house slipper. They don’t call it a “slipper” for nothing. Don’t be fooled by the padded faux lambs wool, and the cushiness of its sole. Any number of things can go awry with these hideous houseshoes, these sinister slippers. There is absolutely nothing holding them on your feet except your good intentions. You can be taking a step and one of them will slip off, fold over, and crinkle your toes. They can slide off kilter and make you twist your ankle; it’s even worse if you’re on uneven terrain. Many homes are one-level, and one can scoot along without lifting one’s feet, enjoying the gleeful combination of static electricity and unsuspecting cats, (Here kitty kitty…ZZZZZAP!) but this just lulls you into a false sense of security. For eventually, you will lift a foot and it will all be over. You’ll find yourself stumbling, mashing the cat’s tail, dropping your fresh cup of coffee, banging your head on a railing and cracking every toe-knuckle you have. And squishing your cream cheese bagel into your right ear. It can be even worse than that.

For instance, I am writing this at the foot of my staircase.

I’m going to need a few more minutes before attempting to get up. And when I do, I’m going to put on some sneakers, and use my open-heeled house slippers as cat toys. Maybe they can put their little arms inside them when the basement gets too chilly. Or maybe I’ll put them in my lap and use them for hand warmers, myself. But they will never again go on my feet. Especially not right now, since I can’t bend over without aggravating those seven slipped discs in my back.

 

Ichabod Day

Today feels like the first day of fall to me…not because it’s necessarily cold, but because I have noticed for the first time that most of the leaves have been liberated from the trees. It opens things up, makes things feel larger, and yet more mystical at the same time. There is a starkness to the trees that create an ambiance like something out of a Tim Burton film. I half expect Ichabod Crane to come galloping down Pivot Rock Road with a lantern and windswept leaves crackling beneath clocking hooves.