Shit Happens is the low culture way of saying C’est la vie, or life isn’t just a bed of roses. Or maybe it is. We’re curled up in luscious intoxicating carmine flowers armed with thorns.
My last “Shit Happens” moment occurred two mornings ago when I was walking my dog Django on a loop I do through the neighborhood. I’ve done it hundreds of times, and much of it is wooded, so I’m constantly glancing around searching for birds or wildlife or just admiring the view.
The road I was walking was scattered with leaves, and one hidden rock the size of my fist. I wasn’t looking at the road, in fact, I was looking up at the treetops, and then I was down on the pavement, my pants torn at the knee, my hands scraped, and sharp pain in my left knee. A sudden, unexpected shift of perception.
It took me several minutes to get up, and when I did, I was faced with the fact that I had to walk three-quarters of a mile home whichever direction I chose. Not a great proposition with a throbbing and possibly damaged knee. But I had little choice, so I toughed it out.
For several days I rested, using the time to carve off a large chunk of Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, a book I’d always wanted to read. It was in my rather large collection of “Winter Books,” books of over 500 pages which I collect to read while escaping Winter curled in front of my fireplace.
Now the knee is relatively healed, and I did another long walk this morning, keeping my eyes on the road and out of the treetops.
There’s probably a lesson here on attentiveness or such. I remember my Mother telling me repeatedly to watch where I was going. I forget the exact context, but it made me think that this treetops business has been going on for some time. Needless to say, at 72, I feel that these “Shit Happens” moments will occur more frequently and perhaps have worse consequences.
But I’ll probably drift back to the treetops fairly soon regardless.