I've had a bad history with stairs since very early on. I fell down a flight of stairs at my grandma's house when I was one year old, and I have a picture of me with a black eye to prove it. It's on my bookcase.
When I was seventeen, I had a summer job downtown. The building was three stories, and we were on the second floor. It was my first day at work, and my boss sent me out for coffee and told me to take the fire escape stairs out back. So out the back door I went. I got the coffee, came back and climbed the stairs, and I found the door locked. I don't know how that happened, but I suspected one of the other girls might have done it as a prank. I was wearing platform shoes, and the stairs were metal and narrow. As I turned to go back down the stairs, I slightly overstepped, slipped, and went down on my knees! Holy Mother of God!
I got to my feet and could barely walk, but I limped back to the office through the front door—with the coffee intact! If that happened now, you'd be sweeping me into a dustpan.
I was in bad shape, so I called my mother to come and get me. My left leg, which took the brunt of my slide down, swelled up so badly that it looked like I had elephantiasis. Being the trooper I am, I went to work the very next day. It took a while for my leg to heal, but it did, thank God.
In 2015, I woke up and was still groggy when I came down the stairs and missed the last step. I heard the bone in my foot crack as I hit the floor. I couldn't stand, of course, so I crawled to the phone on my knees to call my husband, who immediately left work to come home. When he got home, he wanted to take me right to the emergency room, but I wouldn't go until I'd showered. So he put a stool in the shower for me, and I showered sitting down. Then we drove to the hospital.
Yeah, stairs and I have a thing.
Bella
Not a fun moment. Was it a misstep, or something slipped on?
Here's a little kiss for it. 
