I got off the bus this evening, and decided to run the distace from the parking lot entrance to our front door. I do this with some frequency, as it feels good to move after having been in class all day, and because I’m pleased that I can do it comfortably, even with my (heavy) bookbag. It’s evidence that I’m in better shape than I have been in the past.

Tonight, it being January, it was dark out at 7:00, but the parking lot is pretty well lit and the pavement was dry. Or so I thought. Two thirds of the way home, I suddenly found myself flat on my face with my bookbag over my head and the wind knocked out of me. There’d been an icy patch in a car’s shadow and my feet had gone out from under me. I picked myself up, noticed that several areas were about to start hurting, and walked sedately the last hundred feet.

Once I was indoors and could see, I took stock of the damage. A large patch of skin was detached from the palm of my right hand. My left knee was badly skinned, and I tore open the knee of my presentable jeans. There were other scrapes and bruises, but the skinned palm and the torn jeans are the most distressing.

The hand is what hurts. The last time I skinned my hands like this I was in fifth grade, playing Red Rover, and it sucked then, too. I don’t even remember exactly what that incident entailed, but I know I fell on my face on the pavement. I tore my Girl Scout uniform, too. Still, I didn’t take quite this much skin off my hands.

Ow.