I do, because like most of my family, we’re what you might call professional klutzes — tripping over nothing, walking into doorframes, and collecting mystery bruises like badges of honor. I fall regularly, bang into things regularly, and have bruises that show up regularly with zero clue where they came from. Right now, I’ve got one on the inside of my elbow. The inside! How do you even bruise the crook of your arm without remembering? Did I high-five a ghost?
And don’t get me started on the family legacy. My beautiful mom was the original bruiser — those very pale, white legs, well spotted with bruises like a Dalmatian on snow, mapping out every bump and bash she’d never quite recall. She’d flash them proudly (or embarrassedly) at family gatherings, a purple badge collection that put us all to shame. My firstborn son — my beautiful boy, literally my twin in looks and, curse the genetics, in klutziness — got the full dose of the gene.
Like a good mom, I enrolled my kids in a physical afterschool fitness program called Tae Kwon Do, thinking it’d toughen them up, teach some coordination, maybe break the curse. He crushed it initially! Did so well they invited him to the competitive team. We were thrilled — he’s not a group sports guy, prefers solo gaming marathons, so this felt like a win.
First practice: running laps around the building at dusk (almost nighttime, shadows everywhere making poles invisible ninjas), and BAM — a pole jumps out, smashes his forehead. He goes backwards, smacks his head on the cement — no protection from mats, that’s indoors for ya — and a huge egg blooms like a unicorn horn. His coach? “Just shake it off!” And he did — because at 12, every smash is still just a big oops. Walked out grinning, ice pack in hand, ready for round two. Me? Watching from the sidelines, heart in throat, thinking, “Yup, that’s my boy. The klutz gene strikes again.”
Walking now requires some serious preplanning, especially in inclement weather like we’re experiencing right now. Snow — oh so pretty — is often covering up a layer of clear assholeness, just waiting to yeet you into next week.
These days, gearing up feels like prepping for battle. I double-check the forecast app (total liar), layer up like the Michelin (Wo)Man — thermals, fleece, waterproof pants that crinkle louder than a chip bag — grab the poop bags, leash, and now my new best friends: the boot spikes.
Even then, snow’s a seductive deceiver. It sparkles all innocent under streetlights, but underneath? That glassy black ice, the “clear assholeness,” smirking like it knows your shoelaces are untied. My neighbor swore she only skidded because of “hidden potholes,” but we know it’s winter’s revenge for surviving another holiday season.
I was doing my usual morning walk, the one I’ve done for literally the last 7½ years with my dog. Sure, we vary our routes because, you know, as women we gotta mix it up to ensure no creepy buddy’s lurking in the bushes, stalking us, ready to jump out and devour us like a bad horror flick. (Pro tip: My dog’s the real bodyguard — until she spots a squirrel and forgets I exist.)
Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, strolling along my merry way, ears plugged into my podcast, lost in true-crime bliss or whatever motivational mumbo-jumbo it was. Mid-stride, podcast host droning about some serial killer’s alibi (ironic), dog trotting ahead like she owns the sidewalk.
Feet felt solid one second — then whoosh, the world tilted like a bad carnival ride. Legs shot out, arms windmilled uselessly (klutz arms, amirite?), and splat — face-first into the snowbank. Head bounced. BOUNCED. Like a Super Ball on concrete. Snow exploded everywhere; dog whipped around, licked my nose like “You good, hooman?” while I lay there, brain short-circuiting:
“Did gravity just unionize against me?
Is this karma for laughing at that viral ice-fail video yesterday?”
One minute of utter confusion (“Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?”), piecing together what the fuck just happened, realizing it was ice’s fault, pissed off at ice (and myself), coming back to my normal sane state, and trying to stand up without crying uncle. Stars? Check. Ears ringing like a bad tinnitus ad? Check. Inventory: Phone intact (miracle), dignity? Shattered into icy shards.
Might I share that I suffered a pelvic fracture about eight years ago — had spinal decompression fusion surgery at L5-S1 because discs said “peace out” with degeneration flair, plus arthritis throwing daily stiffness parties? Mornings? Human pretzel untwisting with coffee and cat-cow poses. Yet here I am, very fit — a daily exerciser and walker, crushing 5K routes, lifting weights that’d make my 20-something self sweat. So I figured I could handle falls better than your average 54-year-old.
Spoiler: I was wrong. Dead wrong. (Not literally, thank God.)
When my head bounced — literally bounced — I thought, oh my God, I’ve just cracked my skull open like a walnut under a sledgehammer. Felt for wetness (a.k.a. blood), nada. But the pain and throbbing? Intensified like a migraine on steroids. Made my way back home, trying to call husband and kids, but 6:30 a.m., crickets. Husband’s voicemail. Other kid: Snoozing. Miracle boy — who leaves his phone at 2% like a personality trait — answered: “Mom? You okay?”
Me, croaking: “Fell. Head bounced. Send pizza?”
Troops mobilized, slowly shuffled to the ER.
ER circus: Old man flu. Guy with mystery toe. CT whirs like sci-fi villain; X-rays confirm spine’s still fused (yay?). Doc: “Mild concussion vibes — headache, fog? Rest up.”
Me: “Can I walk the dog?”
Remember when a fall was just an oops? Like that time years ago I banged my head on the kitchen counter mid-coffee pour — stars danced, shrugged it off, chugged caffeine. Youth = invincible rubber. Or my son’s Tae Kwon Do debut — pole 1, forehead 0, but hey, just a bump!
CT scan and lumbar spine X-ray (just to be sure, given my catastrophe history) yielded nothing major — thank goodness — except potentially mild concussion or concussion-like symptoms.
I now have spikes attached to my boots. They clack comically on dry pavement, earn stares, but who needs elegance when you’ve got survival mode? Adulthood means turning footwear into tank treads just to fetch the mail. Because apparently, after passing the klutz torch, it’s time to grip it back.
Sheli Stark is a 54-year-old mom to two young adults who balances a career in social services with her work as a certified personal trainer. Fitness is part of her daily life, along with treasured time as an auntie, loving on her dog and cat, and living a vegan lifestyle. When she’s not out walking the dog, she’s usually working on the novel she’s been writing (and rewriting) for the past six years. Find on Instagram.
