Just Call Me Crash

If you follow me on Facebook, you probably already know, I had a rough weekend. If you don’t follow me on Facebook, you can… just click on that little thumb right over there, in the right margin. I’ll wait.

Anyway, I had a self-inflicted, rough weekend. And I swore off alcohol. Again.

I didn’t swear it off as in, like, AA-I-have-a-problem-swore-it-off. Cause I don’t. Have a problem. I know what an alcoholic looks like, first-hand. And I like chocolate waaaay more than I like vodka, so I’m good. AND I ONLY HAD TWO DRINKS! I’m just a wuss. Seriously. I had two sixteen ounce drinks, each with a twelve ounce can of Blood Orange San Pellegrino, and ice, and topped off with vodka. And I was STILL bike-crashing-smashed. WTH? So I swore off alcohol for little while. At least until my bruises go away. And this black eye…

See, wha-ha-happened-was…

Hubs and I rode our bikes (our pedal bicycles, not his Harley bike) across the neighborhood to our friend’s house on Saturday afternoon. And on the way home, I fell off my bike. TWICE. Each time I sprawled across some random person’s grass and laughed my arse off, and marveled about how the dewey grass looked like phosphorescent water (we had just watched The Life of Pi). And of course, Hubs, freaked out, since it was only seven o’clock at night, and people were out and about; he tried to hoist me back up on my feet, while he was holding my bike, his bike and toting a heavy backpack, before some neighbor drove by, a cop, or God forbid, our seventeen year old son.

Hurry, get up before someone sees you. And if a cop sees you, we’ll get a ticket.

“We are on our bicycles! I can’t get a DUI for drunk riding a bicycle! Look at all the glowey grass Hubs… It’s soooo pretty.”

Yes he CAN give us a ticket. It’s illegal to drunk ride a bike. Get up.

“Well, how is he gonna even know? And look Hubs, I can make a phosphorescent angels…”

You are sprawled out on somebody’s lawn, laughing your ass off and making pretend angels. I think that would be a good clue. Hurry and get up… NOW! Come on.

And so I did. I managed to get back up, on my bike. Only to fall again. And after the second crash, Hubs made me walk my bike. Correction. Hubs walked my bike, and his bike, and he carried the backpack, and somehow he managed to steer me home, too.

Needless to say, Sunday was a no good, very bad, day. I woke up covered in bike-crash bruises from head to toe. I spent most of the day in my redneck-recliner, trying not to move, swearing off alcohol, pouring water into my hand, and drinking from the Advil bottle.

And this morning, I woke up feeling refreshed. My neck is super stiff, probably from bike-crash whiplash, but otherwise I feel good. Also, I noticed I have a few new bruises; one under my arm. WTH? And the obvious bike-crash cuts and bruises: shins, knees, hip, butt. But no big deal, I decided I could easily cover those for work. I’d just wear jeans; I checked the legs first though, to make sure my old underwear wasn’t stuck inside (lesson learned).

Rushing out of the door, borderline late for work, as usual, I noticed my toes. I was missing toenail polish on two toes. Not kidding. One toe, on each foot, had zero polish; two of my pigs were bike-crash victims too. And I didn’t have time to dig for closed-toed shoes. Lovely.

Not only did I have a rough weekend. But I was also going to look the part too. Lovlier. Little did I know… It was about to get better. I didn’t have a black eye. Yet.

As I walked out of the house through the garage door, loaded down with my workbag, I saw a COBRA out of the corner of my eye; okay, I didn’t have my glasses on, and it was not a cobra; but it looked like a cobra in the dimly lit garage, and so I thought it was a cobra, and so I reacted to a COBRA, and not to a coiled up dog’s leash.

I quickly slung my workbag (loaded with my iPad, lunch, water bottles, purse, everything) on the floor behind me, and it slid across the laundry room; then in one swift move I walked through the garage door, closed it, and flung my body up-over-forward-and-to-the-right, above the cobra, just like Nadia Comaneci, catapulting to the high bar; or in my case, to the top of the garage freezer.

Except I didn’t just stop moving once I landed on top of the garage freezer; my body slid over the top of the freezer, and it came to rest on the floor behind the freezer; on top of a pile of garage-crap; shelves and whatever; it doesn’t matter, it’s all broken shit now.

Why didn’t I just close the garage door, and exit through the front door? What was my plan IF IT WAS A COBRA? I don’t know. I take the hard roads. Yo.

All I know is my two unpolished toes are the least of my worries today. I think I’m gonna have a black eye, and I might have a few bruised ribs. I’m looking for a paper bag, and some more Advil, now.

By the way, Hubs slept through my entire Cobra adventure. Not kidding.

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3 comments on “Just Call Me Crash

  1. bensbitterblog
    October 15, 2013 at October 15, 2013 #

    I guess you can forget how to ride a bike? My kids don’t believe me…

    • virtualendings
      October 15, 2013 at October 15, 2013 #

      Huh. I don’t know. I ride my bike (sober) pretty regularly. But I don’t think you forget how to ride because ‘they’ have a saying, “It’s like riding a bike,” so since there is a saying about riding a bike, it makes me think you probably never forget how to ride a bike. Ever. So I’d have to side with your kids. You should test my theory.

      • bensbitterblog
        October 15, 2013 at October 15, 2013 #

        I will try riding it sometime in the next 40 years and test your theory. Maybe when I’m 80.

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