Face-plants Pt. 1

I've always hated falling down. It's never good, and always embarrassing. You could be walking alone, along a completely deserted street, miles from any known civilization, and if you trip and fall, someone will drive by just in time to see the face-plant.
I have to admit that usually, when I see someone trip or fall over, it cracks me up. I can't help it that some people look hilarious when they fall (and for those of you who are horrified at my mean-spiritedness, I'm sorry!! I can't help it that God gave me a mean sense of humor).
Maybe because of my tendancy to laugh at other's mishaps, I'm more paranoid about becoming the 'humorous spectacle' for onlookers...I don't know.
I haven't fallen down while rollerblading for literally years. And the last time I fell down, it was due to circumstances completely beyond my control. Let me explain. When I lived with my parents in Michigan, I loved to rollerblade at midnight. For safety purposes, I would always take my dog, Kenya, with me. I don't know why I thought this would render me more safe, because, in all actuality, it was probably the most sure way of getting myself killed.
Kenya was a great dog...when she was in her cage...alone...and not bothered. When she was let out, she was a spaz. She was also completely unsocialized, and this turned out to be her downfall (or mine, if you want to get technical).
I learned very quickly that she would do everything in her power to run up to any other person/dog/alien who also happened to be out on the street at midnight. I also learned very quickly how to control...well, how to avoid these situations. Seeing as she was usually sniffing some other dog's turd in the grass, or checking out the local urinal (aka fire hydrant), I would always see others approaching before she did. Thus, I was able to do an about-face, and blade (very fast) in the opposite direction. I know, it was cowardly; but when each foot is stuck inside a little boot that is attached to four small wheels, you don't have much traction. It was a simple choice: wild rides (or dragging) across lawns, thru corn fields and small ponds, or a quick 180...and ya, I always chose the easy way out.
This worked out quite nicely for a long time, and I thought I had things quite under control (if you can consider running in the opposite direction as being 'in control').
One night, as we rounded the last corner, a dog came out of a neighbor's backyard and caught Kenya's eye. I immediately locked the leash, and tried to blade with all my might, but was instantly pulled backwards as Kenya lunged after the dog. I won't bore you with details, but let's just say that being pulled in circles (because, yes, that stupid little rat-dog went in circles) and having your arms yanked out of their sockets, is NOT a good way to end your evening blade.
It wasn't until I was jerked to my knees on the front lawn, that I noticed the neighbor's front door was cracked up, and a person was standing there. Sighing in relief, as I was dragged around their tree, and car, I waited expectantly for the owner to call their little mongrel into the house. However, after a few more minutes of silence from the mysterious IDIOTIC owner, I politely requested, thru grunts of pain, that they call their dog. A head emerged from behind the door, but there was no response.
I know I must've made quite the amusing spectacle, but, you'd think the owner would've at least been scared enough for their dog to call it inside...unless they knew my dog would be unable to ever catch theirs because she was pulling around a full-grown woman behind her on rollerblades. I don't know what was going thru their head, but after a few more minutes of chaos, I gave up on 'nice', and told the lady in no uncertain terms that she had better get her dog inside before I unleashed mine and let her eat the little rat. Maybe she'd been sleep-walking, and my yellling awakened her, but she finally called her dog in.
I was tempted to yell some threats, and some mean observations concerning her rotten ownership abilities, but figured that I'd given enough entertainment without going into 'crazed yelling maniac' mode.
So with my torn pants, scraped hands and elbows, I slowly bladed home, silently vowing to bring my beebee gun the next night.