Regular blog readers know that I manage a large theatrical scene-painting studio. We paint massive scenery, and to keep projects flowing, we try to have everything on wheels. Work tables are on wheels, and we use all manner of rolling storage carts, and dollies. The other day, Gena got the idea to set up her chair on top of a rolling furniture-mover's dolly. I saw the stool balanced on top of the dolly, and promptly vetoed her innovation, because balancing an already rickety chair on a small wheeled platform seemed like a recipe for disaster. (What I did not do was return the dolly to its storage rack -- also on wheels -- in the adjoining room.)
The studio, being housed in a large cinder-block room, "eats" sound. If I'm not pointing my face directly at the person I'm trying to talk to, there's not a chance they'll hear what I'm telling them.
So yesterday, I was talking to Gena, telling her what we needed to to before the end of the day. I was leaving work early, to get my allergy shots.
I was walking across the studio, talking over my shoulder, and not looking where I was going.
I put my foot down on the abandoned furniture dolly, which immediately slipped forward, carrying me with it. I did a full "splits" and fell flat on my ass. In slow motion. It hurt like hell. But it must have looked pretty funny.
Today, my groin muscles are in agony. I'm a freaking idiot.