I totally wiped out on the way to teach my knitting classes.
On the city sidewalk. I tripped over the sidewalk, people. Dig it. I blame the trees. The trees and Phyllis.
The trees had grown roots, the roots pushed up the edge of the sidewalk, and Phyllis drive by. Gazing at her and wondering whether I could flag her down and bum a ride, I hit the edge of the sidewalk with my toe, and I bit the dust. Since I had already called in late, I was hurrying and therefore hit the pavement with both hands and both knees, full force. Well, my right knee took quite a bit more of the full force than the rest, but you get it.
My immediate concern, of course, was to not look like a fool in front of the many (MANY!) passersby, so I leapt up instantly and pretended to be fine. Which was kind of hard to do, what with the spurting blood and inability to walk.
That's what I get for laughing whenever someone falls down.
So I hobbled to the nearest restaurant, 20 feet away, which was closed. As was the next one, and the hair salon. Stupid pretend-Village-in the-middle-of-the-big-City and its stupid quaint closed-on-Mondays affection.
But the bar! The blessed bar was open.I hobbled in trying to hold my skirt out away from my legs so as to not smear the blood further (read:impossible), yet not up high enough for anyone to be able to see my doughy, unshaven, bloody legs (read: pipe dream). Ah, the dignity.
Y'all, I wished I had a camera so bad. Not just to record the gore, either. I don't know if there are words to describe the filthy, horrifying "First Aid Kit" that came out of the back of that bar. Seriously? When I dug around and pulled out the neosporin? Some kind of brown mystery liquid DRIPPED OFF IT AND LANDED IN MY WOUND.
I may die. I wiped everything I could get my hands on down with sterile wipes, called in sick to class, and ordered a drink.