The Pirate Dance Yard Sale

Seriously, y'all. I know. All I ever talk about anymore is my stupid knee surgery.

But this is just too much - nay - too brilliantly conceived by the gods of misfortune not to share. And then of course there's also that thing where I have no pride, and I therefore have to run around and tell everyone about the stupid things I do. Whatever.

So it is with great pleasure, my friends, that I impart with you yet another embarrassing moment from my world. Aaaah. Sit back, crack open a cold beverage while the dogs lick your toes...and enjoy.

I like to call this one "The Pirate Dance Yard Sale", because, well - thanks to the ACL surgery, I currently walk like a pirate. Arrrrgh. The yard sale part, though, is a little more difficult to describe if you don't live 'round these parts. You see, when you're skiing and you eat it*, it's not uncommon for your hat or a ski(s) to fly off and go flailing past you in the heat of the moment. Maybe it's a glove or a pair of goggles that is thrown left or right...or possibly your IPod has been thrown under that tree over there. Everything is askew. And you? You lay there with snow shoved up your shirt and down your pants, staring at the clouds (or maybe those are stars you are seeing?), potentially laughing your guts out or maybe wincing in agony, when you realize that you are half naked and missing your tunes. Then it hits you - you have fallen victim to the "YARD SALE". Everything must go.

I'm guessing that the ski gods must have been feeling sorry for me since I am out for the season-o-ski-a-licious-ness, so they cooked up a little hors doeuvre - a wee morsel - for me to taste so that I don't forget what being cold and wet and half naked feels like...or maybe they just needed a little fuel for their cold, black hearts. I wish I knew. But the other day, whilst getting out of my car in my work parking lot, one of those trickster type ski gods decided it would be funny to SLIDE A FREAKING ORANGE CONSTRUCTION CONE right under my feet. Where I wouldn't see it. You know, it being ORANGE and NEON and 2 FEET TALL and RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE and all (except that actually, I walked backwards into it and then over it. Graceful.).

The resulting mayhem may have looked something like this:

Imagine - in slow-motion: as I am falling, I utter the loudest, most guttural, unnatural sound from my very core, until kerplunk! There I lay, on the cold, frozen tundra of handicapped asphalt...belongings everywhere, ego (and potentially my newly built ligament) damaged beyond repair.

Until it hits me - if I were on the slopes, it is a safe bet that I would be doing the exact same thing.

Ego-shmego. Whatever. I'll be your court jester.

*The technical term for a really bad crash, the kind where you definitely do not look like you have the gracefulness of a ballerina in a tutu.