I fell but got back up

We often hear the advice from others as the calendar turns over at our birthday–marking another year having galloped into the great abyss, out of sight.
“You’re not getting any younger.” Not exactly a revelation like the splitting of the atom or landing on the moon or the discovery of insulin.
My body is more aware of that fact than I am, oftentimes complaining into the wee hours of the night, in a language that doesn’t always translate well, whining about the various injuries, mostly from falls from horses.
“Not again,” my mother would shout, her shoulders collapsing when I limped in with a limb twisted this way or that (I’m fairly certain my bones were saying the same thing).
I’m not sure I was blessed with the self-preservation gene and it seems I have raised four daughters with the same trait, so I’m guessing I can blame it on genetics (i.e., it’s not my fault).
It’s spring here in Nova Scotia, finally, and the list of repairs and chores is a very long one and, at times, almost overwhelming. Almost. Slow and steady will get them done and the ones I don’t get done can wait until next year.
The future of the free world is not hanging in the balance.
I tackle the list with a little bit too much enthusiasm on the first warm days of spring. I’m still trying to figure out the mystery of moderation, whose habits seem to evade me. There’s still time.
The other day, I was switching up my box spring. I had my ridiculously thick and heavy mattress sitting against the wall while I moved the box spring into place. I was trying to get things lined up so the mattress would just flop into its spot, but then the mattress had some other idea and fell on me, trapping me under it against the edge of the box spring.
I was, indeed, trapped, and not the first time if you remember the incident from several years ago in a change room at Sport Check that involved a rogue sports bra.
I couldn’t move. It gave new meaning to the phrase I’ve fallen and I can’t get up, though I must keep the facts straight and remind you I didn’t fall, I was pushed over (it’s not quite the same thing).
I lay there for a time, trying to formulate an escape plan and then I got the giggles. “Is this how I’m going to die,” I thought. I pictured a film crew capturing the disaster for the news and the print headline, “Woman Killed By Mattress, film at 11.”
My mother used to say that whenever we had less-than-shocking news. She would make up some headline and end it with film at 11, and we would all laugh. I think that’s a good approach to these mini life-disasters.
So when I quit laughing, I wiggled around and was able to turn my back to the mattress and successfully extract myself from the jaws of death. I thought my wrist was broken in the fall but after turning it every direction, I realized it was just a strain and would be fine.
Not to be outdone, I then wrestled the mattress into place and whipped on a fitted sheet to show it I was in charge.
That’s right: I came, I conquered. Don’t mess with me.
wendistewart@live.ca