I don't know when or how it started. But started and it has continued for years. When I watch the Olympics and an iceskater falls, I reflexively holler out, "Splat!" Same thing during my short-lived stint as a watcher of bullriding. "Splat!" if the cowboy didn't last the full eight seconds. In public settings, I try to control the reflex. With partial success.
Today wasn't a good day. I've got an interpersonal conflict going on in a group that is important to me, and I'm in a position of having had to make a decision that was going to evoke hard feelings from one part of the group or the other. And there are a couple of pressing deadlines at work. And there was a glitch in the school email system, so an important communication wasn't received. Grumble, grumble.
Frankly, I was glad when it was time to go down and get some lunch before a session someone had scheduled where we would all share tips we'd figured out around a new software program we're working with. I got my salad and a modest portion of pasta and was heading, with my tray, to get a beverage. And suddenly I was on the floor. On my bum. With pain in my toe, my knee, and my hip. All on the right side. I sat for a bit to settle myself and then a great big assistant teacher (the guy who played Jesus in "Spelling Bee" last year, fittingly) gently helped me to my feet. I hurt. A coworker walked with me to a place where I could sit and rest; a friend went to get me a fresh lunch. It might have been worse: I could have hit my head. I could have fractured my hip. Heck, my dress might have flown up! "Grace personified!" I thought -- that's what my late mother would have exclaimed. Advil was dispensed. A form was filled out. I was assured that I'll feel worse tomorrow. And then we held our meeting.
I sure hope someone hollered "Splat!" I deserved it.
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