That's Why They Call Them Slippers

Did you ever notice that? We call certain types of footwear "slippers," presumably because you "slip" them on your feet rather than lacing them up. Yet, the word slip when applied to something you do with your feet most often refers to, well, slipping and falling over, and if you are over 70, probably breaking a hip.

I guess, when you get old, your hip is the first thing to start to get loose, because it seems every time an old person navigates any sort of mild bump, their hip shatters into a thousand pieces. Why can't nature make the hip out of the same material as the skull or something? Am I right?

So, anyway, my grandmother today enacted this rather silly pun, slipping and falling while dialing a cell phone in her slippers. She was reading this very blog. In particular, she was reading this entry in my blog, in which I refer to myself as a slob and blame this condition on my overly-clean mother (my grandmother's daughter, in case you didn't catch that).

My grandmother wanted to add some witty rejoinder to the blog, but didn't understand how to post a comment without entering in her name. She would never actually enter her personal information into a computer. One too many news stories on "identity theft" have convinced an entire generation of Americans that providing anyone with any information about you on the Internet will immediately result in the draining of your bank account and, possibly, your deportation to Upper Mongolia. This is a woman who worked in a check cashing business in what I'll call an "unsavory" neighborhood of Philadelphia for the majority of her working life, and she's afraid that telling someone a thousand miles away her name is Sally will result in financial and personal ruin.

But I digress. My grandmother got up to call my mother and ask her how to anonymously post a blog comment when she tripped, fell, chucked the cell phone a good several yards away, and landed with a thump half-in and half-out of her bathroom. This resulted in two things: my grandfather running in from the other room to see what the commotion was about, and my mother screaming into her end of the phone, able to hear her parents thumping around but unable to discern what actually was going on.

And here's the part I find amusing: my grandfather, rather than assit my grandmother, does two things: pick up the phone to speak to my mother, and begin laughing. So, he's telling my mother, between chuckes, that his wife is currently on the floor, having tripped and fallen (for the second time, I might add, in a month or so), not actually seeing if she's alright, or even conscious.

So, he's trying to explain to my mother on the phone what has happened, but all she's able to make out is that her mother is on the floor, and that she was reading my blog. So, my mom's about to tear ass out of the house to go check on what's going on, if possibly her parents have both suddenly gone senile at the same exact moment, when the chaos ends and my grandfather finally makes the situation clear.

So, long story long, everything ended up alright. I visited my grandmother only a few hours ago, and she's her usual self, able to laugh about this incident (I hope, as I've just spend about 500 words goofing on her) and feeling alright, if a bit drained and sore. And that's why, if you have a history of medical problems, heart disease, or are pregnant, you shouldn't read Crushed By Inertia without supervision and the consent of your doctor. It's for your own good.