Dancing Falling in the Street

Last weekend, lucky duck me was part of a ridiculously (outrageously, uproariously, hilariously, et al.) hysterical conversation about falling.

I shall not name names - I dare not inflict any additional embarrassment on this person - I shall only mention the fact that they were cycling over some railroad tracks (slippery little suckers!) One minute they were cruising along, à la Lancey-pants, and the next second, bam - they found themselves way down in Mangled Town without a second of reaction time to be found.

This catastrophe, this falling down is nothing new to me. I fall. A lot. (Boy do I dread my twilight years something fierce - especially cause I hate milk - oh heeeey osteoporosis! I have premonitions of re-breaking my hip the second the cast comes off.)

I cannot precisely pinpoint when I became a klutz. Hmm. On second thought, I don’t think there was ever a time when I was not.

I liken myself to the Abominable Snowman - sans proper motor skills. Actually, worse. Stick him in high heels, make him clumsier, and picture him three sheets to the wind. (Then add a few more sheets.)

(Who am I kidding, sheets don’t even need to be part of the clumsiness that is Katie “Abominable” Parry.)

I am an unbalanced, uncoordinated sad excuse for a biped. My reflexes are so slow, I don’t even realize I’ve fallen until I’ve been on the ground for a good five M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i seconds!

I’d like to blame heels but I just don’t wear them all that often. Of course there have been heely incidents - like my birthday when I was dying laughing at Fred aka Kyle Orton, and dropped like a potato sack on my back.

It didn’t really bother me - I’m an animal. I demanded to chomp off a bite of pizza before being helped up (just like ye olde Sasquatch, food takes precedence over filthy sidewalks dirtying up whatever pretty party dress I’m donning).

Last weekend I fell twice - once off of a hammock (I blame those ménage à trois sheets flapping in the wind...and hey, hammocks are tricky little contraptions, to be fair), then I ate it again on a trail heading back from the beach - and I was sober town.

I’ve fallen down on 6th Avenue in the midst of morning rush hour. I’ve taken spills in bars (and been dip-dropped while dancing with the not-so-trusty Mary Rita). I’ve tumbled down slick rooftop slopes. I’ve bottomed out on icy sidewalks because I was running home (mouth watering, McD’s in hand). I’ve been tackled and tripped in sports. Skidded on my ass down slippery green grass (those stains are the worst!) I’ve mistakenly missteped and missed the curb (or stair) completely. I’ve crashed into trees (and people) while skiing. I’ve walked into glass doors (and glass museum dividers) and been knocked backward. And, perhaps most infamously of all, I’ve fallen off a table while dancing to that Crazy Town “Butterfly” song.

The irony in all of this is that I’m quite terrified of the fall itself. Of diving, crashing, tripping, tumbling, keeling, collapsing (and I used to be a soccer goalie, imagine that). So scary! Our worst fears lie in anticipation. But once I’m down on the ground I’m usually laughing my ass off and picking myself up, dusting myself off, just like it was any other chore. Just like I was tidying my apartment.

I feel like falling is misspelled - that it should be k-a-t-i-e-p-a-r-r-y. Or at least that I should be an honorary synonym.

I blame it on the shoes. I blame it on the surface. I blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. But really, it’s unfair to blame anything except my über-klutzy self.

(And no, that’s not me - I wish I could be so lucky as to have such a great action shot!)

FYI: If you ever witness me taking a spill, please - laugh away. Cause I know I’d be the first to return the favor.