My son fell off his yoga ball and bumped his head on the wall. As you would expect, I asked if he was okay. He said, “Yes, I’m fine.” Then he asked if I have ever bumped my head. So I relayed this event involving me bumping my head as an instance in which that had happened:
It was my first year of college. Manhattan. The 00s. My friends and I were on our way back to our apartment and there was no traffic on our side of 23rd Street. The far side, going west, was stopped at the light. We had the brilliant idea to run across the road in the middle of the block. We ran right infront of a big, dark Escalade. So there was no seeing what was on the other side. And as I was taking my last step on the curb, a biker came flying down the space between the lane and the sidewalk—not a bike lane, mind you—and knocked me down in such a way that I hit my head first on the bumper of the car in front of the Escalade, and then again on the asphalt. It didn’t knock me out, but I had a wrenching headache.
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