I hate to disparage the State Shoe of Vermont but the truth is that my Danskos tried to kill me yesterday!

Not the fancy new Danskos that look all shiny and almost dressy, well, I guess they are dressy for Vermont, the old kind that don’t shine and have those silver staples all the way around the sole.

Now if you wear Danskos, and who doesn’t, it being the State Shoe and all, I don’t have to explain how the heel tends to turn on you – you already know that and, just like me, you’ve probably almost twisted your ankle a dozen times and maybe you’ve even taken a fall.

You know there’s really two parts to a public tumble.  There’s the moment when you realize you’re going down and then there’s two seconds after you hit the pavement when you realize you’re not dead and gasp in horror that someone may have seen you and might come rushing over to help so you jump up as quickly as you can and start walking, all the time laughing extra loud at your foolishness to show that you really are okay and that everyone should just go on about their business.

I fell on some ice a couple of years ago and when my mom rushed over to help she hit the same patch of ice, went down in the exact same spot, and wound up breaking her wrist.  People came running from everywhere and that time I was grateful.  My head was bleeding like a stuck hog and my mom’s hand was hanging at a really awkward angle.

You know when something like that happens amid the pain, embarrassment, and blood-soaked Kleenex there’s a kind of dark humor that takes over.  First there was the whole mother/daughter thing, then there was the fact that mom clearly knew the ice was there but was in mama-bear mode so paid no attention to her own safety.  Kinda sweet isn’t it?

Then everyone in the emergency room wanted to know where we were when we fell and when we said, you know that little Vietnamese place on Pearl in Essex Junction? they all said, oh, that’s my favorite restaurant.

Then my mom who’s as big around as a beanpole needed the amount of morphine that it would  take to sedate a 400-pound gorilla just to dull the pain.  All the nurses and techs kept pointing out the 89 year-old woman who was consuming more and more vials of morphine and telling stories about pickin cotton in Texas.

So after my mom got her wrist set and came home she started getting mad.  Who the hell forgot to salt the sidewalk?  I’m 89  and I shouldn’t have to go through this – it just wasn’t right! I mean she was pissed and if there’s one thing you don’t want it’s to have to live with a pissed-off, hard-headed, drugged-out old woman.  That’s what ain’t right.

Aside from having to live with my mom I wound up with a black eye the size of Dallas.  I tried hiding in the house until it went away but as I just explained staying home became less and less attractive so I finally bought a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, wrapped a black scarf around my head and pretended I was French.

I have to say that except for the fact that my face was swollen up like a melon it was a pretty good look for me.  I shopped. I did lunch. I said bonjour a lot and no habla englais – yeah, I know that’s Spanish but bonjour is pretty much the only French word I know and besides, people still smiled nicely and nodded their heads as if I’d just explained everything.

People are like that.  You don’t really have to make sense – just say something with flair and they’ll go along.  They’ll smile, you’ll smile, and the day will be better because of it.

So I’ve been thinking about the moral of this story and I’m damned if I know what it is.  Walk carefully and carry a big stick?  Everything has a funny side?  Pretense is reality?  Be careful about the shoes you fall in love with?  I’m just not sure and I guess it doesn’t really matter.

I’m still wearing my Danskos, I still have a scar over my eye, my mom’s wrist still aches when it rains, and well, life just keeps on going.