Ouch.

I fell down the stairs last night. Well, not so much fell, as slipped. Fortunately my substantial left ass-cheek cushioned much of the blow, however, I also have an abrasion and bruise on my left forearm.

I haven’t fallen down the stairs for a good 6 years now. I was due. I blame the falls on the lack of handrails on most of our stairways. Apparently when men built houses years ago, they didn’t think much of safety on stairways.

The first time I fell down the stairs in this house was slightly after our wedding. I was thankful that I waited until after my wedding day as walking down the aisle with a pillow on my ass didn’t sound fun to me. I mean, I had the large bow on my wedding dress taken off for the reason that I didn’t think my butt needed any further accent.

But that first time I was much thinner and had to sit on a pillow and brought a heating pad to work with me.

At least this time I have more padding on my buttocks. It doesn’t really hurt that much. Except for, perhaps, my pride. I still have quite a bruise on the one cheek though.

Nice.

Here’s a photo of the offending stairs. They don’t really look that mean do they?


And to add insult to injury I got to clean cat vomit off another set of stairs today.

Good times.

Edited to add: I showed Craig my bruised behind. His reaction?

"OMG!" visible shudders. Goose bumps.

Doesn't really make me feel any better!