I don’t pick up my feet when I run. I call my stride “efficient”. Other people call it “old man shuffle”. In any case, I don’t pick up my feet and I tend to trip and fall down occasionally. Okay – I fall down a lot.

My most spectacular fall occurred when I was seven, or maybe eight. I was riding my purple Schwinn with the banana seat and the basket, wearing my brand new, ultra-hip, black and white checked bell bottom polyester pants. The pants got balled up in the chain in about three seconds and I pulled the bike over on top of myself, getting trapped underneath. In order to escape, I had to wriggle out of my pants. I ended up pushing the bike home wearing nothing but my T-shirt and my underwear, with the pants dragging along behind me, trailing from chain, greasy and horrible. My mom, catching sight of me from the kitchen window, said “who is that poor naked child?” before realizing that the poor naked child was me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about falling lately.

I’m leaving and leaving soon. I’m about to leap, to fall into the biggest, most terrifying, most exciting adventure of my life. I really hope my pants don’t get caught in my chain.