If a doctor (the kind on TV who would ask probing questions–not my actual doctor, who doesn't) took a look at me in a hospital gown, she would think I was being abused. Both knees, , the outside of my left hand, and left upper arm are covered in bruises. "Oh no, I just fell down the stairs." "A subway turnstile smacked me." Both true, and odd that I would have so many transit-related mishaps in a short time frame.

One was anger/impatience-induced when the Times Square slow walkers forced me to huff past and barrel full-speed into one of those tall, turnstiles with arms. My Metrocard didn't register and a bar whacked me in the arm. That hurt.

The other was semi the result of slamming three plastic cups of Sutter Home (just like I said on Facebook where I find myself more and more lately) at a conference. After a three-avenue power walk in the rain from the Javitz to Penn Station, I got nearly to the bottom of the entry staircase before skidding out and pitching forward onto my knees. This one did not hurt. And like I also said on Facebook, I was a little surprised that strangers offered to help me back up during rush hour. They probably thought I was elderly or pregnant since I was bundled up on a big parka with a hood and few identifying characteristics other than gray hair and puffiness (the jacket, not my face).  

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