I think my New Years can be summed up with one small event that happened during my evening.

I fell down the stairs.

I wasn't even bombed. It was the shoes, and those damn Olde City spiral hardwood stairs.

No, it wasn't. In truth, it was the bad behavior I indulged in upstairs that sent me tumbling down them.

Before I slipped, I swear that I felt that soft nudge from the foot of Fate, placed low on my spine and she sent me reeling.

As well she should. I have no business at this point in my life to be in a locked upstairs bedroom at party.

I should know better. I should walk away when the white devil is mentioned.

This is what ran through my mind, as I picked myself up off of the hard floor and doubled over with pain shooting down my back from the fall. I thought to myself, I am too old for this shit.

Too. Fucking. Old.

And then someone came down the stairs and passed something into my palm while eyeballing the powder room, and the moments later I emerged, with the pain of the fall just a memory.

This morning? Or should I say this afternoon, since I went to bed sometime after 7am?

This afternoon, barely able to move from the fall. I went into the bathroom with my back to the mirror and lifted the back of my shirt and looked into the mirror behind me.

I held my breathe, waiting for judgement. Sure that time had finally caught up to me and that my lower back would be lacerated and bruised from the steep and bumpy fall.

Not a goddamn scratch. Just white skin.

It's hard being a modern miracle. Thank God I'm not in an abusive relationship. I'd never be able to build a case.

previous next