The Fretful Mother's Blog

I’m not worried so much about falling down the stairs as I am falling up them. I seem to have a problem in being too anxious to mount the stairs. It’s probably some kind of metaphor for me or something. I think I really focus when descending because I don’t want to end up in a heap at the bottom with one leg grotesquely protruding from my head. But the stakes don’t seem to be as high when you are heading up.
I mostly just bang my shin into the edge of the step and get rug burns on my hands. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not dismemberment either. I suppose I should be more worried about my ascension. It could combine into the perils of the descension. What if I was almost to the top of the stairs and suddenly lost my balance. It could be like one of those Latin soap opera scenes in which I’d first grab for the railing. Then I’d bounce my head off of the wall. Next I’d roll step by step as the bystanders cheered me on. I would end up in a heap at the bottom with a trickle of blood coming out of my mouth. Only it would be real-life, and there would be no cutaway to a commercial for crystal clear gravy. That does it. I’m getting an elevator. You can never be too safe.

This entry was posted on December 16, 2009 at 9:55 am and is filed under Fear of the Day. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.