How else to describe my appearance after my fall on the 183rd overpass last night, the brunt of which I took on my hands, so that my lips would only gently meet the pavement? As disappointed as I was in my legs for not doing their usual part and keeping me afloat long enough, if not at all gracefully, to regain my balance, at least my aging adrenal glands did theirs to pull me quickly off the street and back onto the sidewalk. I was just on my way downhill, which may have contributed to the instability—that and my annoyance with the unmasked pedestrian who forced me on the outside of the guard rail—and a car speeding blindly over the hump might have easily finished what gravity could not. Some vestige of survival skill or minor damage assessment must’ve convinced me it wasn’t my time to remain prone and become one with the universe.
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