"Wee, wee, wee," all the way home

This morning I drug myself out of bed at 5:30 am and left my cozy house to jog and walk.  I usually walk for 5 minutes in the chilly dark (carrying my trusty flashlight for the really dark bits) and then begin my series of jogging/walking intervals as the sky lightens and day dawns.  It has occurred to me that as it is darker and darker at this time, I might have to brave the heat of the sun and do this after I teach my morning classes.  But I have been loathe to burn in this high plains desert sun, so I keep dragging myself up and out early.

This morning I had barely started my first interval of jogging and was almost directly under a street light when it happened.  I must have caught a toe on some uneven spot and before I knew what was happening, I was flat on my face in the sidewalk.  I took the brunt of the fall on my hands and knees and chest, and partially knocked the wind out of myself.  And this is where I realized that I am no Dave Finnegan.  When Dave falls, as happens occasionally, he gets up, finishes his run, and usually forgets to tell me about it.  Me?  I cry like the proverbial piggy all the way home, and tell my sad story to the world since he is not here to offer me sympathy.

Now that I am home and in the light, my knees are only slightly scuffed, and I feel slightly banged about, but the only real injury is to my pride.  I guess I should be grateful it all happened in the dark, early enough for no witnesses. I'll have to replace my little gloves, which have both palms ripped out of them (better than MY palms, I guess!) And I'll have to start going out when it is light and I can see.

I have a feeling there are huge numbers of spiritual and moral lessons to be learned here.  But right now I'm smarting from my knees to my pride, and I think I'll make myself a cup of tea and wait for Dave to add some sympathy to it.