Stairway to Hell

When I was a freshman at college, I went on a date with a lovely guy, who happened to be a senior, which was a huge deal to me then. After dinner at the local pizza joint, we stopped at his place to pick up something he’d forgotten before heading to his fraternity party. Somewhere on the way down the three flights of stairs that lead to his apartment, I slipped. It was March in Colorado so there was black ice everywhere but of course I didn’t see any on the step.

Now when I say I fell down the stairs, I didn’t just trip. I full on tumbled. It was like a scene out of an action movie, but to me it felt like everything was happening in slow motion. I could see him (ahead of me) trying to catch me but it was too late. Before I knew it, I was lying in a clump at the bottom of the stairs. I’m not sure what hurt more, my hip or my pride. I can’t really explain the pain because I was numb with embarrassment. I immediately popped up and laughed it off while desperately holding back the tears.

He asked if I wanted to go to the ER but I brushed it off, saying I was O.K. As we walked to the party, which seemed like 100 miles away but was only a three-block distance, I felt my right hip throbbing with pain. By the time we got there, I was in so much pain that I could hardly walk. I excused myself and had a friend walk me home. When I got to my dorm room and peeled off my pants, I found a bump the size of a grapefruit on my hip! My friend took me to the ER, where I found that I did not break anything but would need physical therapy for a month.

I nursed a huge bruise on my leg and couldn’t sleep on my right side for months. I don’t know what happened to my date since I never saw him again. I am sure he’s told the story of the poor girl who fell down the stairs on the first date many times. It still hurts a little bit just thinking about it.