Stop, drop, ouch

Saturday night. Getting into bed; not to sleep, but to read, which requires a different entry strategy. When it's sleepy time I get into bed from a sitting position, from which position I then lie down. Easy, uncomplicated. When I get into bed intending to sit up for a while I enter on hands and knees so as to better position myself against my pillows without having to rely on my arms to push me back.

So, back to Saturday night. I was climbing into bed when something slipped -- whether it was my knee or my wrist, or both, I don't know -- and I slid right down to the floor, stopping only to scrape my back on the bedside table.

I landed in a dignified heap but was unable to get myself up off the floor. Cecilia came running and said she wished she could help me; John ended up lifting the heavy load (very efficiently, I might add).

I blame my extraordinarily luxurious 1000 thread count sheets; what makes them so fabulous also makes them a slippery hazard. I guess it's time to pull out the rubber knee pads. I become more glamorous every day.

What a nice segue -- I can tell you about my shopping experience Sunday.

Becky and I went shopping for running shoes for her birthday present after which we went looking for a jacket for my upcoming trip, and a new pair of jeans since I have outgrown the pair I purchased in March. The jeans were located as were a couple of other similarly styled pants. (By similarly styled, I mean pregger style.) As we were checking out, the cashier, seeing the "specialty" garments, asked me if I wanted a gift receipt. I said "no," at which point she looked at my stomach and said "ahh." You can imagine how glamorous I felt at that moment.

Following on the heels of Friday's clinic, these two incidents reinforced Louise's involvement in my life. I went back and forth several times this weekend being mad, sad, resigned, defeated, but ultimately grateful. There is so very much to be enjoyed in life, no matter how fast you run or walk, no matter how high you can lift your arms...that doesn't matter. What matters is being almost 51 and enjoying the look on the Kohl's cashier's face when she sells you maternity blue jeans.