Sunday, May 20, 2012
I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up. No. Really.
It’s crush time in our family. Recitals, concerts, ballet performances and award ceremonies.
And I still need to fit in “martini” time.
So off we go on Sunday to the Piano Recital.
You know Sunday. THE DAY OF REST FOR EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T HAVE CHILDREN!
My daughters are amazing. But our video camera didn’t work. So I made my husband tape them with the iPad. Cuz that was far too humiliating for me. (It’s all nifty and sleek. But not when you are using it in front of 100 people at a piano recital.)
Clap, clap, clap. Yes, everyone was fabulous. Yes, you can have one cookie. ONE COOKIE.
Clenched teeth response: Because Mommy wants to GET HOME and put my feet up and watch TV! So how about no cookies? Cuz that’s an option also if you want to argue with me in public.
As we are walking out the driveway of the Rancho Mirage Country Club, I’m singing my daughter’s song and doing a little dance when POW!
I fall off my platform shoe.
The pain shoots up my leg like a gun shot. (No, I don’t know what an actual gun shot feels like, but I do watch a lot of crime dramas on TV.)
My first thought is: Oh fuck. I’ve broken my stupid foot again.
My second thought is: Oh fuck. I have to lie down immediately.
My third thought is: Hmmm, these rocks pressed into my cheek feel nice and warm. Uh, really warm actually. (It is Palm Springs after all.)
My fourth thought is: I feel my ass out on the street and my skirt is hiked up.
Fifth thought? Don’t really care about my exposed ass. Cuz I am never lifting my face off these rocks ever again.
And I can hear voices going in and out. “Ambulance,” “clammy,” "not conscious." (Hello. I’m conscious. I just can’t move or speak. Cuz maybe I’m being raptured a little bit after the others.)
Someone comments about how the pavement is melting under their shoes.
Me? The rocks are starting to feel really hot.
My husband? My hero? My knight on a white horse?
He just wants to load me in the car before we have to deal with the hassle of an ambulance.
Sweetly, “Come on Honey.” Clenched teeth, “Get in the car!"
I do notice from my special vista point down on the ground, that there is a small crowd gathering. And not everyone had a fresh pedicure. Just sayin’.
Wet compresses are brought. Fanning commences.
And there is a lot of talking about me in the third person. Like I can’t hear them with my face planted in the rocks. Did I mention the rocks are getting really warm by now?
So it turns out I could get up. Eventually.
Turns out it wasn’t broken.
However, emblazed in the memory of 45 piano moms is the indelible picture of my yummy ass. And by “yummy," I mean big, white, flat.
And you know what they were all thinking? Geez, it’s a good thing that lady down on the ground over there is not wearing a g-string.
And great. Another piece of the Mommy Mosaic.