Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.
Yes, I know.
We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”
So naturally…
we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.
Solid plan. No notes.
It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.
Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Spectacularly.
With range.
I am what you might call… an expert faller.
Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.
I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.
Olympic-level.
Gold medal. No question.
Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.
I am under five feet tall.
A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.
Short arms.
Tiny hands.
Little bitty feet.
Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.
And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”
And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.
So essentially…
I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.
So the falling?
Not a phase.
A lifestyle.
My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.
I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.
My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.
As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:
“Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”
I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.
I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.
Injury report:
One bruised ego. No physical damage.
Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.
Then there was the pregnancy fall.
Very pregnant.
Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.
No slippery floor.
No misstep.
No warning.
Just… boom.
Flat on my backside.
A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.
And without missing a beat, I told them:
“The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”
That child stayed put for three more weeks.
Coincidence?
I think not.
And so it went.
Decades of falls.
Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.
Didn’t matter.
Gravity and I have a relationship.
At some point, I stopped fighting it.
I started leaning into the fall—literally.
Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.
Smile like I meant to do that.
By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.
Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.
Or the chemo.
Or “just being careful.”
Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?
No.
I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.
My last official fall was two months ago.
Senior Walk at prom.
Sidewalk.
Crowd of parents.
Maximum audience.
One minute I’m walking…
the next minute I’m not.
Down.
Concrete.
Hands and knees took the hit.
No injuries.
Absolute perfection.
Gold medal performance.
And then…
today happened.
We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.
Cute shops.
People everywhere.
Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.
I was being careful. Focused. Aware.
I saw it.
A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.
At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.
So I told myself:
“Stop. Look at the flowers.”
And my brain said:
“Great idea.”
And my feet said:
“We’re gonna keep going.”
I walked directly into the fire hydrant.
Full commitment. No hesitation.
Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.
And then…
something miraculous happened.
I teetered. I rocked.
Time slowed.
I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.
And then…
I DID NOT FALL.
At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.
And somehow…
I stuck the landing. Nailed it.
For the first time in sixty-nine years…
I almost fell—
and didn’t.
Now, I could tell you this is about balance.
Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.
But let’s not get carried away.
I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.
Barefoot shoes.
Not wisdom.
Not evolution.
Not inner peace.
Footwear.
So here’s what I know:
I have spent a lifetime falling.
Getting up.
Laughing it off.
Pretending I meant to do that.
But today?
I didn’t fall.
Which means one of two things:
Either I have finally evolved…
or this is just the setup
for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
of my entire life.
Honestly?
Based on my track record…
I’d stay tuned.
-Pattie
P.S.
As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:
The fall in Nashville.
The fall in Key West.
The fall in the airport.
The fall in—well, everywhere.
I told him I’m writing a blog.
Not War and Peace.
Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.
Third Act With Pattie 