Ouch

So, last night I'm outside on a brilliantly gorgeous evening, drinking Kahlua and cream, and watching the kids ride their bikes down the newly paved road near the house (where they plan to build a ludicrous number of houses, but for now is just a pretty black patch of asphalt lined in white sidewalk) when I decide it will be a good idea to RACE my eight-year-old son down the hill.

It could have been a good idea.  He's on his bike, I'm on his Razor scooter.  Everything is going swimmingly.  Until the little cretin starts to win.  I decide I need just a bit more speed (despite the fact that I'm already going far faster than aforementioned hunk of metal was designed for) and brilliantly put out my foot to push.

Foot hits ground, body flies over handlebars, body slams into pretty black pavement, body rolls several times and comes to a merciful halt.

Oddly, it didn't hurt a bit.  (Thank you, Kahlua!)  Stung, yes.  Bled a little.  But did not really hurt.  At least, last night.

Today it looks like I took a cheese grater to my knee and it feels like I jammed about sixteen angry wasps there by their stingers, and they are now fighting to get free.  By biting and clawing.  Ow.  My elbow is not pretty.  Ow.  Nor is my left palm.  Double ow.  Luckily, my writing hand escaped with only a minor scrape.

I'm extremely lucky I didn't smash my bloody brains out.  At least I didn't crash the second time.  *sigh*  I didn't win, either.  Stupid scooter.  Son apologized profusely for racing me.  Sweet little Hufflepuff.

Ouch

So, last night I'm outside on a brilliantly gorgeous evening, drinking Kahlua and cream, and watching the kids ride their bikes down the newly paved road near the house (where they plan to build a ludicrous number of houses, but for now is just a pretty black patch of asphalt lined in white sidewalk) when I decide it will be a good idea to RACE my eight-year-old son down the hill.

It could have been a good idea.  He's on his bike, I'm on his Razor scooter.  Everything is going swimmingly.  Until the little cretin starts to win.  I decide I need just a bit more speed (despite the fact that I'm already going far faster than aforementioned hunk of metal was designed for) and brilliantly put out my foot to push.

Foot hits ground, body flies over handlebars, body slams into pretty black pavement, body rolls several times and comes to a merciful halt.

Oddly, it didn't hurt a bit.  (Thank you, Kahlua!)  Stung, yes.  Bled a little.  But did not really hurt.  At least, last night.

Today it looks like I took a cheese grater to my knee and it feels like I jammed about sixteen angry wasps there by their stingers, and they are now fighting to get free.  By biting and clawing.  Ow.  My elbow is not pretty.  Ow.  Nor is my left palm.  Double ow.  Luckily, my writing hand escaped with only a minor scrape.

I'm extremely lucky I didn't smash my bloody brains out.  At least I didn't crash the second time.  *sigh*  I didn't win, either.  Stupid scooter.  Son apologized profusely for racing me.  Sweet little Hufflepuff.