Last Saturday night, late, I was half asleep in my chair, Dinah on my lap, when Bob called down that he was going to bed. I answered that I was coming up, too, and I got up and turned off my lamp. All the other lights were out downstairs, and I walked through the dark dining room to the hallway--if I had turned on the light first, I would have had to walk ALL the way across the dining room (that was sarcasm), turn on the overhead light, then go BACK and turn off the lamp.
I stumbled over the cats' cardboard catnip scratching box, fell, had nothing to catch myself on, and banged my arm hard against the sewing machine cabinet. Something stabbed me, also, but I'm still not exactly sure what. I thought it was the cat "hammock" (broken), but when I looked at it later, I didn't see anything sharp. I threw it away, anyway.
I turned on the lights and went upstairs; Bob was already in bed. I told him that I had fallen, and he said "Did you break anything?" and "Do you want me to go get you an ice pack?" I said no to both questions, mopped up the blood on the (small) puncture wound, and went to bed.
In the morning my forearm was completely black and blue; by now, a week later, it's several lovely shades of yellow and purple. I'm really just lucky that I didn't break it. Cello, of course, said, "Did you press your emergency 'I've fallen and I can't get up' button?" I still take grief for being the oldest one at the office, although not a lot.
Anyway, I survived, and I've been wearing mostly long-sleeved shirts. It's turned cold here, so that isn't a hardship.
Conversation yesterday between Dave and Dominick (Cello's four-year-old son)--Dave was getting his things together to leave for the day; Dominick had been throwing a tennis ball for the dogs:
Dominick: Where are you going, Dave?
Dave: Crazy. Want to come with me?
Dominick: Yes! Can I bring the ball?