Friday the 12th?

So, I've never been the kind of person to be nervous about Friday the 13th, or all that nonsense. I love black cats, think cemeteries can be both beautiful and relaxing, and adore horror movies.

But today? I should have known I was in for a rotten day.

The puppy woke up early, and by early, I mean 6:10am. Now, I was already awake myself, getting the kids ready for school and checking to make sure my husband's flight had landed safely. Because my daughter, the alleged owner of the puppy, was running late, I took the little thing down for the dawn constitutional.

I ran back in with the puppy, in time to see my daughter off and to get my son and head to wait for his bus, with the puppy still in tow. Chilly morning, geese flying in formation overhead, which they announced with extremely loud honks, and a beautiful blue sky overhead. The bus came, my son boarded, and the puppy decided we needed a second constitutional. Fine, I'm a good person. I obliged, and when she was all done, she began to scamper home.

Now this is where it all goes wrong. I am not twenty-one anymore. Even in a dark pub, in candlelight, and half drunk, I am not twenty-one. So why I decided that it would be a good idea to trot a few steps with the puppy is something of a mystery. I managed a single trot. I did. And then my foot decided that it was not going to make that next step, despite the momentum that insisted that my body keep going forward.

Physics rocks, every time. I hit the pavement knees first, then onto my hands, and finished by smacking my left cheekbone off the concrete.

Total sum of injuries: right knee, swollen and scraped; right hand, heel of the palm and pinkie finger scraped; left hand, heel of the palm and top of hand scraped; left cheekbone swollen and sporting a lovely little cut that may or may not scar. Oh, and my dignity has taken a pounding as well. What was left of it, anyway, since I have kids.

*sigh*