If you've ever been in our house, you know that the stairs going up to our bedroom are at a pitch that is somewhat akin to scaling the Hilary Step on Mount Everest (hey - I've read "Into Thin Air," so I've got cred). This morning I was throttled out of a warm and happy sleep by a coughing fit. I could hardly catch my breath so I got up to go downstairs and get a drink. I took one step on the stairs and proceeded to slip, banana-peel style, and bounced down the steps like a skipping stone. Matt heard the THUMP! - thump-thump-thump-thump and found me sitting there half-crying and half-pouting. I was mostly mad because, I mean, bummer start to the morning. I'm coughing violently, can't catch my breath, and now I just bounced down the stairs. It hurt, dude. Like it hurts to sit and it even smarts when I walk. So this afternoon I climbed on the side of the tub so I could see my lower half in the mirror, and an inspection of the damage reveals a nasty bruise on my rearius endius.
I'm just gonna say, it's just another way I'm reminded that I don't have much to brag about.
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