Every two years, my wife and I become experts on the Olympics. "Holy cow! Did you see the way she perfectly landed that triple Sowkow?" It just comes naturally.
So, by extension, it would seem only natural that I decided to have a one-man Olympic event in my front yard for all the neighbors to witness.
I had just come off a long weekend of baby-sitting my daughter's bratty dogs (an Olympian event of endurance in itself). Tired, wearing dirty clothes, and arms loaded with a suitcase and a refrigerated bag containing numerous beers, I wearily climbed the front five stairs to gain entrance to my much-missed house.
Except my arthritic knees had a different plan. As if in slow motion, I reached the top of the stoop, wavered backwards, and gravity took me backward down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
My first thought was hmmm, this must be how Simone Biles feels while flying through the air. My next thought was Oh my God, I'm gonna die on the sidewalk. Finally, I pondered the nature of my unusual and extraordinary decision to forego clean underwear that morning because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Then I heard my mom saying, always wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident.
All of these thoughts transpired as I flew backward and through the air in a matter of seconds. I wish I could say I planted my landing beautifully like Simone Biles, but alas, the judges would've penalized me big-time for my crash landing. I banged onto the sidewalk and bounced into the yard.
Mercifully, my elbow took the brunt of the crash, saving my head from a concussion or worse. Dazed, with cartoon birdies dive-bombing around my head, I looked around. Scattered throughout the yard were numerous beer cans and dirty clothes, shrapnel from my ammunition-loaded bags.
Mortified, I sat up, thinking Wow, it's good to be alive. I'm really thankful that no neighbors witnessed--
"Hey, Stu, are you alright?"
Crap. One of the young neighbors across the street had come running out, having witnessed my Olympic trial through his window.
Incredibly humiliated, I continued to sit in the yard in dirty underwear, waiting for the neighbor to go away. But he didn't.
"Ah, what's up, Joel?" I said in a nonchalant manner.
"I was just looking out the window and saw your fall. Are you alright?"
"Yeah. My arthritis just got to me and gravity did the rest." I considered asking him how he would've rated my landing.
"But you're okay?" He looked about the yard in bemusement at all my beer cans and dirty clothes scattered throughout.
"Just a bruised ego, that's all," I answered, still sitting there like I had planned it that way.
But that wasn't the only thing that was bruised. My back, legs, knees, shoulders, and elbow hurt like mad for two or three days after that. But at least I finally got to experience life as an Olympic champion. (With dirty underwear.)
Speaking of greatness, meet Zach Caulfield, a champion "male entertainment dancer (aka, a stripper)." Go on, just ask him. The problem is Zach constantly stumbles across dead bodies and more often than not, gets blamed for the murder. It falls upon his weary, much put-upon, usually pregnant sleuth sister to find the guilty party to save her idiot brother's hide from jail. Read the wacky antics and mystery and adventure in the Zach and Zora comic mystery series!
