This morning I donned my semi-tall boots (they used to be considered my tall boots, until I got a taller pair), and my wool coat and scarf. Carrying my backpack, a plastic cup of orange juice, and two garbage bags, I trudged my way through the snow to the curb. I dumped the garbage bags, then I headed for my car, thankfully sheltered in the garage.
Underneath all of the snow is a thick layer of ice. Now if I were a good citizen, I would have gotten up early and shoveled and snow-blowed all this cold white stuff away. But I didn't. Instead I planned to just kick it out of my path, jump in my car, and drive over it.
Well. Halfway to my garage, I hit a patch of the hidden ice. Fortunately (unlike one poor soul), even in my sickly early-morning state, my body retained some of its figure-skater's balance. I'm not quite sure how, because it was over before I realized what had happened. My right foot hit a patch of ice, I started to slide sideways, my left foot kicked around, and with a weird little twist and skip I was walking upright again.
I did spill some of my juice though, and two bright orange patches marked the snow where I'd passed.