Down Goes Seaweed

Today I'm tired of philosophizing and I'm not going to talk about other people behind their backs - it's not that I'm tired of it or don't enjoy it or have lost my talent or enthusiasm for gossip, simply that I'm going to do something else.

What to do, what to do?  Hmm.

Sometime during the night on my final day in Vacation City I got up to have a sip of Diet Cherry 7UP - it's better than it sounds - and void my bladder.  As I staggered into the bathroom in the dark, still half-asleep, I stepped right on the edge of this kind of wooden latticework thing that served in lieu of a bathroom mat.  It seemed to be an odd choice to me during my stay but bathroom decor is not my specialty - maybe it allows the floor underneath to stay dry or as a convenient home for cockroaches.  Anyway, the edge of this structure was significant enough that it hurt my heel, causing me to list slightly to the right, toward the tub.  My hand slid on the wall, right onto the shower curtain, which provided absolutely no support for my 180 listing, careening pounds.

"Uh-oh," I must have thought.  "I'm going down."  It's a weird feeling.  It was unwelcome.

With my typical flair for the dramatic, I grabbed onto the curtain - affixed to the curtain rod, affixed to the wall - and pitched forward past the point of No Return.  I pirouetted nicely, figuring ass-first was better than face-first, into an endless sea of ceramic tile.  There was a lot of crashing sounds as I fell, pulling the curtain, the curtain rod, and all of my dignity down with me.

It was pretty loud.  SuperK did not wake up.

So there I was: sitting in the tub, my legs up over the edge, my back against the wall.  I checked for broken bones or wrenched muscles, looked for blood.  I sat there for a second, contemplating my existence.  

"Boy," I thought.  "This brings me back."

I'm a drunk - I have a lot of experience falling down.