This morning, I was walking down the front steps to my building, same as any other day, when my right foot flew out from beneath me, having slipped on the water that had collected overnight.

I flew through the air, thought briefly that I was about to be in a great deal of pain, and landed. Mostly on my right side, entirely on my lower back and butt.

Turns out, I was entirely correct with my mid-air assessment. I hurt. Badly. To the point that I limped up and down the street to try to coax myself back into functioning. I hadn’t the time to feel hurt, and it was a day certainly not intended to involve limping. Limping + heels = no dice.

What amused me about the whole thing, however, is that it made me think of how I should check in with Andrew.

Andrew and I grew up together. When I moved into the new town in first grade, Andrew was the first person in my class to greet me. Granted, he thought I was the girl he was “going out with” at the time and called to me using her name, but an impression is an impression.

(We did look freakishly alike at that early age.)

I had the hugest, worst, most ridiculous crush on Andrew as we grew a bit older* and, when sixth grade rolled around, he and I began to torment each other as if our lives depended on it. So it was the absolute worst thing imaginable when I slipped on carpeted steps one day and discovered that the one person who had seen my graceless glory was, of course, Andrew.

Andrew was musically savvy, even then. So of course he made up a song about it. Set to the Slinky jingle. “She falls down stairs and nobody cares…it’s VICKIE, it’s VICKIE!”

That song plagued me well into junior high. I hated it and loved it at the same time. And when the time came for yearbooks and senior memories, Andrew included a shoutout to me, apologizing for the song. It had become our thing – as much as one person falling victim to gravity can constitute a thing.

So there I am, about 15 years after the Slinky incident, amazed that the association is still there. And I wondered how best to phrase it, were I to send off that MySpace missive.

“Hey there. Broke myself today. Thought of you.”

*OK, fine. Crush until high school graduation. Don’t judge. Small town. And he was a cutie.

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