Last night we were watching the 100 m sprint. I said to Frank & Theresa, “That’s what I want to do. I don’t want to do any marathon. Those are too slow. I want to run really fast like that.” We watched the Jamaican who won the gold celebrate his achievement.
“I can run like that.”
“No, you need long legs,” Frank said. We all have abnormally short legs.
“Nah. All I need are those gold Pumas like he has,” I tell Frank. I then get up off the couch. My intent is to run as fast as I can from the living room into the dining room, just to show them how fast I can run. A thought shoots through my head that this might not be the wisest thing to do, considering my slowly healing foot ligament but I toss the thought aside.
As I put my foot down on the floor, it slips out from under me and I land on the floor. Hard. Damn, I knew it was a bad idea cleaning today! I think I was rolling on the floor, laughing hysterically for about 5 minutes before I could calm myself enough to get up and sit back on the couch. Theresa & Frank are asking me if I’m okay. Did I hurt anything. I start laughing again & lift up my left arm. “My wrist.”
Don’t worry. It’s fine. But I am rather disappointed that it seems I won’t ever be a sprinter.
