I fell down the stairs yesterday. I really did, just like in a movie. I stumbled in my old brown suede oxfords that I wear loose without laces and I couldn't see the next step due to the pile of linens and a down comforter stacked in my arms. With eyes wide open I feel forward, twisting to the left and landing on my right ribs and right shin and then sliding, roughly, to the base of the stairs with my legs in the air. In a dress. Which is one of the reasons I jumped right up and smoothed out my skirt. I immediately picked up the stack of linens and announced to Sarah that I was totally ok. But I had a scary sickly smile on my face and my eyes were glassy and huge and so she ordered me to sit down and take stock. Arnica is magical. I took it orally and applied it topically and iced and rested. In the evening I walked slowly to the neighbor's house where the beloved fig tree lives. He is a naturopathic doctor and generously offered me a high potency dose of Arnica and checked for cracked ribs. Everything is in one piece. I am happy to report that today I feel 75% better. No bruising and noticeably less soreness. But seriously, what the fuck? Falling down the stairs? That's not cool. And the weird thing is that shortly after it happened I was closing the door to the basement and the mop, with its ropey hair and long skinny body, tipped over and slid, bouncing dramatically, to the bottom of the basement stairs where it landed with a symbolic slump. I watched with paralyzed horror. Ok... house spirit, have I done something to annoy you? Can we kiss and make up?

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