There probably ought to be a photo. But if there were, I would probably rather have it destroyed. A photo of what, though? Of the fall? Of me being carried off the field? Of me being loaded into the ambulance? No. No photo required.
I was hoping to impress a guy, as usual. In this case, my 7-year-old. So I brought my old running shoes along for the mothers' race on sports day last Friday. I've been running since having Lucy, nothing spectacular, but up to 3x/week the previous week. I didn't think I would win; I've never been especially fast or competitive. I just hoped to make a good show of it.
Well, it certainly was a show. Not, however, the sort of show I was hoping for. Apparently the jogging I'd done since the baby was born was no preparation for a flat-out sprint. My hips decided they weren't up to it, and over I went. Not a trip-and-fall, catch-yourself-on-your-hands sort of thing. No, I crumpled, hit shoulder-first, and couldn't get up again. No permanent damage, no broken bones (but no x-ray, either). I will be fine, just taking lots of painkillers and wincing for a week or two.
And Thomas wasn't even that impressed.
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