Flash back with me for a minute. Back to 5th grade, when huge hair, stonewashed jeans, and Keds were all the rage. That's way back to 1989, friends. (Have you seen what the kiddies are wearing today? Weird hair, stonewashed jeans, and Keds…good grief. I'm old.) If you were living in Dardanelle, Arkansas in 1989, there wasn't a better place (or any other place) to have a birthday party than the skating rink. But Dardanelle's booming population of 3,000 didn't warrant a skating rink of its own, so everyone went to the big city. And by the big city, I mean the metropolis of Russellville. Only one river bridge and 7 miles away, but worlds apart with their two-story high school, main roads with four lanes, McDonald's, and Great Skate.
Just thinking of the smoke-filled rink conjures up ghosts of birthday parties past. I can almost picture the grungy looking middle-aged DJ playing his 45s…Hit Me With Your Best Shot, I Love Rock and Roll, Walk the Dinosaur...Boom! Boom! Ackalackalacka Boom! We would fly around the floor, wheels ablaze. Forward skate, backward skate, couples skate, all was right with the world…until the DJ called "skate in the opposite direction." Oh boy. If y'all have read enough of my blogs, you know I'm a creature of habit. I like orderly things. I'm fairly certain that if I ever met Obama, he would hate me (since his platform was CHANGE and all). Because I'm not a huge fan of change. Especially if it changes my routine.
It didn't matter which skating rink you went to, everyone always skated in the same direction, entering the floor and proceeding to the right in a counter-clockwise manner. Always. "Skate in the opposite direction" was a change from the norm...it threw me for a loop. And it shouldn't have mattered! I frequented the rink enough to be rather nimble on my wheels, but this going in the opposite direction business was for the birds! My knees knocked, I looked like a clumsy baby giraffe navigating the corners, I was all asses and elbows. It was terrible. But I'm not one to give up, so I pressed forward every single time the DJ called it! Always precariously.
I can still remember the wind whipping through my wildly curly afro (and the resistance of my hairsprayed bangs to give in to the motion), the spin of the disco ball making me feel slightly motion sick and a tad bit epileptic, and my Swatch Watch guard glowing on my right arm in the ill-lit venue. I think I must have looked to see what time it was, and before I knew it, my wheels failed me! They skidded. They screeched. I was flailing uncontrollably through the air, and all I could think was "Jody, get it together! You're going to fall on your watch!" And fall I did. It wasn't a graceful fall, either. I was flopping faster than double D boobs without a bra while jump roping double dutch. I was going down…but not on my Swatch! I defiantly held my watched arm up and braced for impact with the other hand as I toppled over backward while moving forward. (How does that even happen, anyway? Shouldn't the basic principle of inertia prevent one from moving forward and falling backward?) As if falling wasn't humiliating enough, my best friend Rebekah, who was skating right behind me rather deftly, promptly ran over the arm I fell down on. Long story longer, the arm was broken. Maybe it was the fall. Maybe it was getting ran over. Funny part: I'd been injured so many times from various accidents that my mom didn't believe anything was wrong because I wasn't crying. Three days later it was x-rayed, and I was casted. Pretty sure DCFS would be called on anyone who didn't take their kid to a doctor for three days in this day and age, accident-prone or not.
In 7th grade, I tripped over a laundry basket in a dimly-lit hallway and broke the same arm. Again.
Then I started driving, and the accidents continued. Seven of them, in fact. None of which were my fault. (OK, so maybe the fault part is a blatant lie. But just in case any insurance agents of mine, past or present, are reading…they were NOT MY FAULT. #innocent #gooddriverdiscount)
Back to the most recent accident. I can't begin to tell you what came over me when I decided I needed to become a morning-worker-outer. I've never been a morning person. I'm like Garfield in the morning, surly, blanket over my head with my fur ruffled from having to wake up. I'm face down throughout my first cup of coffee, and maybe, just maybe, by the second cup, I have one eye open. Are you getting the picture? I don't do mornings.
But I decided to become a morning runner. And by morning runner, I mean pounding the pavement by 5:15 so I could get in 5 miles by 6 am. It was my first week of workouts, and I'd been on two pre-dawn runs that weren't so bad. Probably because I couldn't remember the first 3 miles since I was sleep-running, and I couldn't see because it was dark and I don't wear my glasses when I run, but hey! I ran.
If you've ever been to Bikes, Blues, and BBQ in Fayetteville, you know there isn't much sleeping that happens if you live anywhere near Dickson Street (and I do). And it was BBBBQ Friday. Motorcycles had revved and roared all Thursday night and into the wee hours of the morning, leaving me sleep deprived. But I dragged myself out of bed, laced up my Mizunos, and went out into the pitch black darkness. Just in case you were wondering, its a horrible combination to be sleep deprived and a non-morning person on an early morning run.
I kept continually thinking about tripping and kept reminding myself to watch out for loose gravel and potholes that I'd spotted on previous daytime runs. It must have been an omen. I made it through the first 2 miles, only slightly paranoid of tripping blindly in the dark, and saw Old Main ahead of me. I turned the corner to head down a side street that I'd run at least 20 times before where there was no gravel, no potholes, just pavement. I was coasting. For about 100 yards, any way.
I'm not sure what happened next. I vaguely recall feeling something loose under my foot (a motorcycle part?). I vividly remember my proprioception flying out the window as I flew through the air and thinking "Oh, shitzu poodles, I'm falling!!" I knew that feeling all too well. This was going to be a big one. I'm talking Hindenburg Disaster…I was crashing like the zeppelin! I was totally out of control. My legs were moving faster than they ever had in an attempt to support my upper body which was hurling toward the concrete sidewalk with alarming speed. I'm sure I looked like a duck making a crash landing in a pond…my arms were waving, my neck was craned upward in an attempt to keep from smashing my boobs into the concrete and prevent my teeth from being knocked out by the sidewalk because both of those would hurt really bad, you know?! Amidst all the flailing, I recalled that I'd forgotten to strap my phone to my arm in my early morning stupor to get out the door. I was carrying my phone in my right hand. You know how people say that when something tragic happens, your life flashes before your eyes? Well, my mind flashed to the 5th grade crash-down and the Swatch. Don't fall on the phone!! I had so many things I didn't want to fall on: my boobs, my face, my phone. It's amazing the amount of thoughts your brain can have in a few seconds, and mine was working overtime. I may have even had smoke coming out of my ears from the sheer speed of the thoughts racing through my brain. Or maybe the smoke was from the friction caused by my running tights as they scraped across the sidewalk. Who knows? Here's what I do know: I skidded so hard and so far on my hips (remember, I was attempting to avert sidewalk contact with my upper body and phone) that I ripped holes in the hip bones of my pants (and in the flesh that covers my hip bones) and my feet flew upward over my head, sending my hand with the phone grinding into the pavement, and causing me to perform another feat that defied all laws of motion (I was forward-rolling, on my belly instead of my back). But I held my head high and avoided all facial contact with abrasive surfaces until I came to rest. I'm pretty sure I said cuss words that I didn't even know I knew. Because...pain! I sprawled out on the sidewalk in front of Old Main in the pitch darkness, hoping no one saw me. (Who was out this early? Not the bikers. They probably just went to bed.) I eventually raised my head to see if my phone was still in tact (it was) and saw three speechless Hispanic construction workers staring at me. I think they thought I was dead.
Hurting, humiliated, and finally fully awake, I forced myself off the sidewalk and began walking home. And oh my gosh. Every step was miserable!! I looked down, and I was covered in blood. I was still two miles from home. I had to get ready for work. So I sucked it up and ran the rest of the way.
What a crash down.
My pants were ripped.
I had loose skin hanging from places it shouldn't have been.
I was bloody.
I looked like I'd been in a biker brawl.
So what did I do?
Cleaned up my wounds.
Snapped selfies of the body parts that could be photographed without fear of being turned in for pornography production.
Made a pot of coffee.
And vowed to NEVER work out in the morning again. Ever. Like seriously.
