upstairs, downstairs

I can't tell you how many times I've heard some jackass say some variation of this over the past few weeks:

"Can you believe how warm it's been? I guess we're in for a mild winter, huh!"

Come on: have we really forgotten how easily tempted Fate is? Each time I heard this, I mentally ratcheted up my prediction for the first snowfall of the year by about an eighth of an inch or so. By the time this past weekend finally rolled around, I wasn't at all surprised when we got slammed with about 26 inches of snow.

Some people blame it on a Nor'easter. I choose to blame it on an excess of inanity.

Luckily, I had fuck all to do except watch the Winter Olympics, so for most of Sunday I was able to stay happily ensconced in my living room. When I finally did have to go out, I made sure I was well-prepared for the inclement weather. (This may or may not have had anything to do with my slight obsession with The Day After Tomorrow.) I wrapped myself up in a coat, hat, and gloves and struggled into my heavy-duty snowboots. Then, I braced myself and walked out the door.

Whereupon I promptly fell on my ass.

The truly embarrassing thing is this: I wasn't even outside. I was walking down the stairs to the first floor of my apartment building and my boot just flew right the fuck out from under me. I managed to clutch the railing at the last minute and break the fall slightly, but I fell hard - really hard - on my left hip and elbow. The wind was knocked right out of me.

And, honestly, I wish that it had stayed knocked out of me because once I caught my breath, I let out the most pathetic sort of animalistic howl. It was so pathetic that, even through the pain, I was terrified that one of my neighbors was going to poke a head out into the hall to see what all the hubbub was about, only to find a spastic, twitching girl sobbing hysterically into her bright pink snowboots. (Did I say heavy-duty? I meant preposterously juvenile.)

At the time, the entire situation seemed roughly equivalent to dying of a heart attack while sitting on the toilet.

It was this fear more than anything else that got me up and into the apartment, where I collapsed in the hallway and tried to stay very still for a very long time. Because it hurt like a goddamned motherfucker. And it still hurts. I'm hobbling around like I'm Tina Turner and Ike just had a hell of a day.

But as I was lying there, I couldn't help thinking that, as usual, it was all my family's fault. Because, really, they're to blame for the fact that I am just too fucking tall.

When I was 14, I went with my father to a family reunion in honor of my Gran's 80th birthday. I had just about stopped growing and was slightly over six feet. And yet I was one of the shortest women there. Now, I was slightly taller than my uncle Gary, who's only six feet tall. But it's telling that he's known, affectionately, as the runt of the family.

As I was coming off a growth spurt, I was also by far the smallest woman there. I think I probably weighed about 120 pounds fully clothed and soaking wet; the rest of the women were built like tree trunks. Or, more accurately, built to throw tree trunks. If any man ever decides to saddle himself with me on a long-term basis, he should take note: I can't help think that it's only a matter of time before I turn into Miss Trunchbull.

But my point is that these people are giants. And they know it. And they should all know better than to breed with other giants. Because that's just cruel. Like, okay, take Andre the Giant. If he were alive, that is. And then shack him up with Rebecca Lobo. Now: imagine the offspring.

I am a slightly less absurd version of that.

Don't get me wrong, I love being tall. It's tremendously useful if, for instance, I need to retrieve an item from a high shelf or instill a Napoleonic complex in an dissatisfying suitor. On a crowded subway car, I can actually brace myself against the ceiling. It's very handy. But the problem with being so tall is that it never stops surprising me. I am absolutely incapable of calculating spatial relativity: I'm always a little bit bigger than I expect to be.

So I have a habit of hitting my head. And stubbing my toes. And tripping over my feet. Not only am I really great at falling down stairs, I'm pretty good at falling up them, too. Sometimes I break bones, sometimes I sprain joints, and sometimes I just bruise the hell out of my ass.

And it all comes back to temptation. Being stupid tempts fate. But being stupidly tall tempts a far more diabolical force: gravity. Not to mention gravity's close cousin, comedy.

Well, I might be bruised and half-broken today, but I can at least take comfort in the fact that if this publishing thing doesn't work out, I have a totally viable career in the circus. It probably pays better in any case. (More)