Old Man Winter Is for the Dogs

Despite my being overly cautious and tramping around in boots with tire treads on the bottom, Old Man Winter got me good two nights ago. As a light wintry mix further disguised the landscape -- in this case a restaurant parking lot -- I inadvertently stepped into a snow-filled, ice-topped pothole, sliding backwards and landing flat on my back, which made strident contact with a cement curb smack in the vicinity of my left lung.

Thereafter, several things happened: First, I finally understood that "having the wind knocked out of your sails" is more than just an expression. Next, fear took over, leading me down a black hole to collapsed lungs, spinal cord injury and impending death. Awaiting further proof of any of those things, and to get out of the bowl of ice water into which I had become submerged, I allowed my husband, who's tough but still no match for that Evil Black Ice, to hoist me to my feet and guide me to the car, drive me home, make me some tea and toss a load of ibuprofen down my gullet.

Sleep was evasive, fitful and short-lived, and soon enough it was morning when it became obvious from the throbbing pain I felt that I had not died and still inhabited the battered, worn container known as my body. Further inspection by a physician revealed that both my lungs were intact but that a rib or two likely were not 100%. The prognosis: Severe pain for the next week or so, followed by less severe pain for several weeks, until fractures knit and muscles relax.

Even watching the Olympics is out of bounds for me now, what with those limber skiers, skaters and snowboarders flinging themselves around without suffering so much as a twisted pinky. Fortunately the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show was on TV last night and will be again tonight. Watching those adorable doggies from the comfort of my own home is just my speed right now.