After another tedious weekly teleconference our group adjourned and stood up from the table in the conference room.  I was furthest from the door but my normally rapid pace put me in the lead to exit. All at once mid-stride, just as my rearward foot began to move forward, it caught a phone cord that became taut instantly. Consider that a walking stride is a series of balance/off-balance conditions where the walker is constantly catching his/her balance. I had been caught off-balance at the wrong moment in my step.

My recollection of that falling moment brings to mind the droll voice of the bowl of petunias in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  Resigned to its fate, its final lament is “Oh no, not again.” I can relate.

Mid-fall my lips came within a hairs breadth of landing face first on an armrest. Luckily I hadn’t shaved that day so I actually had that hairs breadth.  On impact with the carpeted floor my first emotion was one of anger. I had successfully negotiated the cords for nigh on eleven years. But this day it was not to be. This day I would tip like a sack of dirt in front of a room full of colleagues.

After a moment on the floor I spouted an incredulous “Mother F**ker!! followed by an equally enthused “Son of a B*tch!!” Truth be told, it was an utterly sincere cleansing of my dismay. My screens were down and the profanities leapt into the ether. After a few awkward moments I got up and repaired to the solitary confines of my office.

Later I jokingly apologized for my “gravitationally-induced Tourette’s.” I gathered that the unexpected outburst had provided a welcome bit of mirth after a highly technical meeting.

 

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