No, not really. On Monday, I went walking. I needed to pick up a form from uni.
I strapped on my shoes with four-inch heels and trod the familiar path to the student center. You see where this is going, I’m sure.
Crossed at the lights, reveling in the fact that I’d barely had a misstep. There was a set of eight or nine steps, and I eyed them warily. I’ll have to be careful with them, I thought as I baby-stepped down each one.
Two steps from the bottom, my foot slipped and I went down. I gashed my shin, banged my knees, scraped my foot and the nail polish on two of my nails bit it.
I daresay this is a mark of the times, too: I sat there in a bit of a daze, fixing up my shoe and assessing the shin damage. A woman walked past and did/said nothing to help. I wobbled off to the student center, picked up my form and then burst into tears. The very nice people there apologized for the lack of first-aid kits (a fact about which I railed later at home) and a girl brought me to the health services where I was told the nurses were all busy.
I dragged myself home and sought Mum’s first-aid abilities and parental hugs. Now, as I type, it’s painful to walk. My leg is swathed in bandages and gauze, and my knees and foot have bruises developing. Right now I don’t quite remember what happened, or how I went from falling forwards to sitting on a grubby step.
Still, as my parents said, I could’ve broken my leg or teeth. I might not be able to go swimming for the next month, but that’s OK. I think.