One time, at Cornell, I was going to dinner with Milo and Brenna. I was feeling spiffy, so I had my dress shoes on (it was maybe the beginning of my mod period, once I had the trenchcoat and fedora) and I was tapping a light softshoe on the way out. But one stair was wet, and my shoe lost its traction, flying out from under me. My reflexes kicked in and I caught myself first with my left forearm. It was naked because the sleeves on my coat are too short (it's like a 44 reg and I need a 48 long or something) and when I stretch my arms too much, the sleeves can't really follow. So we had the edge of a stair pressing up against almost my full weight with nothing but bone and muscle and skin to hold it. Well, the skin split like a ripe tomato, but the muscle and bone held, I suppose because my other foot found, mere seconds later, the landing below.
So I hung suspended by two points, balanced perfectly, until my reflexes relinquished their control and I let myself sit down, hard, on my butt. My initial shock had faded (thus releasing my reflexes), and as I sat down on the stair to regroup, I laughed. I laughed at what a wonderful machine the human body is, and at all the glorious foolproof failsafe mechanisms it has built in. I laughed because I realized how gracefully I fell, even though it was a fall, and an unintentional one. I laughed because of the fine line that seperates walking, a controlled fall, from an uncontrolled one. I laughed because my arm was not broken.
This morning, I went to take a shower, but I had already gotten in before I realized I forgot my towel. I ran out to get it, but on the way back, my wet foot lost its traction...
