Falling Flat.

“You can’t call my husband. He’s dead.”

Spitting blood, seeing stars and hearing bells is not how I saw this evening playing out. But for the last two weeks I have been on an emotional roller coaster that just won’t let up—and karma hasn’t exactly been kind to me—so this shouldn’t come as a surprise.

And this is me, sitting on the sidewalk.

In lycra that could only be tighter if it was painted on. Ejected from my bike pedals after my face connected with the pavement. Taking mental inventory of the fact that the man who just instigated this little mishap has informed me that I need stitches for “aesthetic” reasons. Listening to my daughter scream. And my son asking for the firetruck to come and save me.

“Do you want me to call the paramedics?”

Nooooooooooooooo.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy a truck full of firemen as much as the next woman—what is it about those pants?—but going back to that whole karma thing, with my luck I would know whoever arrives on that truck. Probably very well. And I really don’t want my snotty, bloody face to be analyzed that closely by attractive men arriving with sirens and lights alerting the entire neighborhood to the fact that I just fell off my bike and got an owie. Granted, I am fairly certain this is a big one. But no matter how impressive the damage is, it will not erase the fact that I fell off my bike.

“We really should call them. You hit the pavement pretty hard and you need to be stitched up.”

“Mommy, are you going to be okay? You’re BLEEDING!!!!”

Somehow, I managed to get through my entire life to this point without needing stitches or breaking any bones. While I am not the most breathtaking woman on the planet, I am not altogether unattractive and now that the stars have faded I am realizing I can’t feel my lips. Which means they are likely the target of those stitches this irritating man keeps mentioning. Which has me both bleeding and seething. Because I happened to be perfectly happy with how they looked before my face met the concrete. And because I am eternally hopeful that someone, someday, might want to kiss them.

Someday is clearly not today.

A day when my daughter alerted an entire waiting room of people that if they wanted to, they could take a peek at a pink thong through see-through pants. A day when my head hurt long before it cracked open on the concrete, spinning in confusion and regret for its deviation from caution. A day when my year of re-setting and re-charging officially ended. A day when I just know I am going to see those crystal blue eyes laughing at me again.

After he looks at my snotty, bloody lips.