Britney did it, JLo’s done it and now 20 year old hotel heirette Nicky Hilton is the latest to sign on to the ubiquitous 'ill advised celebrity marriage'. At 2:30 AM, Sunday morning at the Las Vegas Wedding Chapel (and what good ever came of any venture entered into at 2:30 AM in Las Vegas?) Hilton and New York Money Manager Todd Meister got spliced, and according to Hilton’s spokesperson, are “doing well.” Imagine! Less than a day and a half after the nuptials and they’re “doing well”. Who could have predicted such a smashing success?
The fact that absolutely no one would bat an eye if I were to stumble into a kitsch Vegas chapel in the dead of night to tie the knot with a virtual stranger indicates simply that I have done the wise and elegant thing: waiting until I was in my middle years (or at least legal in all 50 states, 10 provinces and two territories) before attempting a second childhood.
But for me the tumble into late life infancy hasn’t been evinced by a mad marriage, or a predilection for dotting my i’s with hearts, or staging a temper tantrum in a supermarket (yet) but rather by behaviour more consistent with an accident prone toddler, tripping and falling and doing everything save wedging my head between the stairway banisters.
Since Saturday night I’ve been in a car accident, broken another toe (middle, right foot) and had a nasty fall, injuring my hands, skinning my elbow and banging up my knee. Whatever is left unbruised, unwhacked, or similarly unscathed doesn’t actually amount to a whole hell of a lot. I am a mess.
This is nothing new.
I’m convinced it’s genetic; my mother was an inveterate burner of hands, cutter of fingers and bumper of hips. I myself rarely get through a week without the appearance of a mystery bruise or two – the deep purples, sunset yellows and fading siennas simply a palate of technicolour tributes to coffee tables, desk edges and drawer corners.
The toe thing though has been my most consistent accident site. I’ve actually broken two chasing the dog around the coffee table (she likes it) one live on the radio (it’s a talent of sorts) and the most recent one the result of a lead crystal juice jug slipping through my fingers. (I screamed and jumped around like a cartoon character for a good five minutes – stars, tweeting birds, the lot. Then I took three Advil and slugged back a glass of wine. The toe is now just a dull red throb, but the juice jug is solidly, squarely, heavily unmarked. Bastard jug.)
The car accident really shouldn’t merit a mention since everyone in the car (me, my friend and her three children)survived the rear-ender unscathed – though my neck is a wee bit sore and frankly, my biceps ache – and the car came through without a scratch. (At least on the spot we were hit.) I was surprised by how much I wanted there to be a dent when I pulled over and squeaked at the guy who drove into me. “There are little children in the car!” I exclaimed. (Though all are in the double digits age-wise, and all are taller than me.) But I was rattled. Seriously rattled. Shaken even.
But the fall was the worst. I was crossing Bay at Dundas with the friend and the three whatevers yesterday afternoon, when I caught my toe on an uneven bit of paving stone. I absolutely flew through the air – in slow motion – and had time to think about how it would feel when my face hit the pavement and my front teeth all snapped off and the blood started to flow and my lips swelled up and bits of street embedded themselves in my poor blameless face. I could actually hear myself saying (through a mouth full of shattered shards of teeth) “Really (reweewy) I’m fine (Ah’mm fahhn)”. And how I’d smile through the pain and insist we go on to lunch. (“I’ww jusht haff the shoop.”) As it turned out, I just banged and bruised and scraped my hands and elbow and knee, and scratched up my handbag. But it could have been worse! And I was shattered.
So what’s next? Mistaking some under the sink poisonous cleaning product for a tasty treat? Slamming my fingers in a door? Flying off a swing and landing awkwardly, shattering both feet? (They couldn’t look any worse.) Falling down the stairs like a bag of laundry on speed? Your guess is as good as mine.
For now I’m just glad my flat is all on one level – no stairways or banisters of any sort. Though perhaps something can be arranged by wedging my head between the decorative iron bars of my headboard… an ill advised marriage to a cute fireman come to my rescue sounds an infinitely more amusing and potentially less painful way to celebrate my return to immaturity.