Most towns in Massachusetts are just beginning to get the snow removal process underway after this week’s storms. Consequently, pedestrians’ only option is to walk icy paths between three foot snow banks.

While walking back to the car after dinner with Joey and the GF, I think I slid out of control two or three times in the mere one block it took to reach the front of Club 58. Thanks to Massachusetts smoking bans in restaurants, there were three fairly typical town-ettes standing outside enjoying their cigarettes in the cold.

For maximum comedic effect, I couldn’t have timed it better, because just as I got within arms length of them, I took what we refer to in the area as a major digga (explanation for non-townies). I’ve never claimed to have been suave, and I’ve been tripping over my own feet since a gangly 12 years old. Instead of developing a system to stop the root cause of the problem, my brain has developed a method of dealing with the aftermath. It ignores the things that make me constantly trip, but like a cat, it orders my body parts into a major flailing production in the air that results in a safe and a perfect landing. I never seem to hit the ground. It’s a gift.

Anyway, I have no idea what I did when I hit the ice in front of Club 58, but I know I twisted 180 degrees to land on my gloves almost in a push-up 10 inches from the smokers.

“SHUT UP!” one yelled (why they yell shut up, I’ll never understand) and pointing to one of her nodding companions said, “She just slipped in the same spot like 2 minutes ago!” Then, the “Areyouok?Areyouok?’s arrived and receded like a crashing wave. Now, I swear that normally I am a pretty quick-witted wise ass, but unfortunately, I think my brain’s fall control mechanism must’ve completely sucked all the neurons from the wit center of my brain. All I could think of while on my hands was the Culture Club song:

I’ll tumble for ya, I’ll tumble for ya…

Shit. Falling is not embarrassing. Having the best witty thing that you can think of to make light of the situation be a based on a 20 year old song by a fucking drag queen that that none of these kids would even remember, nevermind appreciate: Now that’s embarrassing. Upon further reflection, the remark probably would’ve sucked even 20 years ago. Oh, the horror. I just swallowed a tall glass of shut the fuck up and got up and said,

“I’m fine. Thanks. No really. I’m fine.”

It was the best I could do. The GF, in her nurturing nature, started in with questions about my ankle surely being twisted because of the 180 degree turn, and the townies were exchanging huddled smiles and cackling about how crazy the fall was, as I merely stood up, composed myself, and continued on my way to the car.

Five feet away stood two townie guys barely in their early 20′s discussing the fall in cool, quiet tones that are only appropriate for 22 year olds and Clint Eastwood movies. As I passed, I had a moment of cool when one quietly said,

“Dude, that was an awesome fall.”

Which I ruined completely by opening my big, fat mouth for the first time with:

“I fall all the time. I’m like a falling ninja.”

I didn’t look back for a reaction. I just winced and walked on. Only if I’d been wearing a “Caution: Falling Ninja” T-shirt could I have been less cool.

Posted in #1GF!, Misc.