Documentations of my Trip

I've seen a kid fall. The child was unsure of his steps and fell, face forward, but avoided hitting his head on the ground by putting his hands out in front of him.
The result: maybe a skinned knee, scratched hands, and a hurt heart.
But the kid gets back up again.
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While I would like to say that it happened while I was doing something heroic, or because I was the victim of some malicious person, this is not true.
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I hate the feeling of falling: the vulnerability of the act, the scars, the hurt ego, the crushed heart.
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Monday morning and I was early...for once. For once I wouldn't have to run up three flights of stairs to class. It was quite surprising that I was early because I thought I had taken up a considerable amount getting ready that morning--well, namely just finding an outfit to wear. My choice clothes: black and white striped collared shirt, black vest, tie, belt, jeans, and flats. I'm not one to usually wear belts but these particular jeans called for it. These jeans were loose and long. I had a thought or two or three about rolling them up, but I never did.
Not rolling up the pant legs of my jeans was a grave mistake. It had rained earlier that morning and the ground was wet. The stairs leading up to the building were wet and almost covered in mud chunks. Because my pant legs so long and were dragging on the ground, I decided to tip-toe up the stairs to avoid excess draggage. This process worked for the first 6 stairs. This process worked for the second set of 6 stairs. The third set of 6 stairs were particalarly muddy and somewhat slippery. But I went ahead and used my tip-toeing process.
Tip-toe first stair.
Tip-toe second stair.
Tip-toe third stair.
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You know the feeling. The feeling of vulnerability. The feeling of stupidness. The feeling of cihldlikeness. You know what I'm talking about....right?
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Tip-t-TRIP!! I missed the fourth stair and my foot went down to the third stair, my knee hitting the fourth muddied fourth stair. I put my hands out in front of me to balance my fall, which caused my book-filled bag to fall on the muddy stairs also.
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I'm not really a swearer. Only in occasions of necessity do I use expletives.
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This was such a case. I muttered a choice word and stood upright. I looked at my stinging hands. They were wet and muddy from breaking my fall. I saw scratches from the concrete. I looked at my knee: dirty.
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I hurt....physically. My heart hurt. My ego hurt. I'm thankful no one was there to witness my childlikeness and my vulnerability in those immediate moments following my fall.
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I picked up my bag and walked to the bathroom where I immediately washed my hands off which hurt like heck. I tried to clean my jeans off to no avail. I gathered myself and fixed my hair; but before exiting the bathroom, I sat down on the provided couch to roll up my pant legs, which should have been done much earlier.
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My hands still ache. My knee is still bruised. I'm still embarrassed to tell the story.
I've fallen.