Entering ‘No Skateboarding’ Zone
A t noon and five each day I rub the skin over my left eye where the plastic surgeon sewed nine tiny blue stitches last month. Five minutes of circular massage twice a day is supposed to reduce the buildup of scar tissue, said the boy masquerading as a doctor in the ER. I’m in favor of reduced scarring. I don’t need more lines near my eyes, thank you very much. Ironically, it was that kind of thinking—of aging and waning youth–that drew me to the skateboard that caused the accident that resulted in sutures in the ER the Friday night of the accident. These things happen when one turns 50.
My husband and I had just finished cleaning up in the kitchen. He poured us each a glass of wine to enjoy during the movie we planned to watch on the big screen in the basement playroom. Older people spend their Friday nights like this and, dear Lord, it is exciting. When Andy, our dog and I reached the bottom step of the basement stairs I saw that our son, once again, had left his skateboard next to the stairs. The skateboard’s raggedy green wheels glistened in the dark. They almost talked, lopsided and dented, of thrilling rides and loopy fun. Could I have some of that again, I wondered. Maybe. Yes. Why the Hell not? As Andy adjusted the lights and the screen and fiddled with the projector, I set my full glass of wine on the bottom step, put one foot on the board, and scooted around. Yes, I glided slowly, matronly some might say, but, as a newly-minted 50-year-old, I had no problem with that.
Unfortunately, the ride was going so smoothly that I decided a little more oomph could only add to the fun. I pushed off a little harder that last time and the board went all Evel Knievel on me. The wheels turned wobbly. The board came alive and shot through the air over my head. Hey, why are my feet in front of my face? Does anyone know? The momentum flung me back and sideways, and I heard a crack. I landed—face first—on top of the wine glass and, immediately after, the oak step. (We didn’t carpet the stairs because people trip on carpeted stairs. Don’t you know that?)
Andy heard the crack and the crash and turned away from the buttons and dials to look for me at eye level just as I stood up. Blood, glass, and wine had splattered everywhere. I was afraid to reach for my face. Was there an impaled wine glass where skin had lain undisturbed just moments before? I heard Andy’s too-normal voice, “Are you okay?” To be fair, I’d have asked the same question if the wine glass were on the other face. For a few seconds, we stared at each other, mouths open. The dog’s whimpering snapped us out of our stupor. We bounded for the car and aimed for the ER.
Now, every day at noon and five, I massage my boo-boo and ponder how a Friday night went so wrong for an otherwise sensible 50-year-old woman. Misadventures almost always teach us something, if we listen. Funny, I’d been wondering how I might mark my 50th birthday, but I guess it decided to mark me.