Here's my "Falling down the stairs story" (apologies to all that have heard this before):
We had just moved into our new house about 7 years ago, in the summer. I had applied for a job (the one I have now) but hadn't heard back and had a few weeks with little to do. I decided I would go out and pound the pavement, visit a few local shops and see if I could get a job. So, to do that, I need to have a nice outfit, so laundry had to be done.
I was carrying a basket of clothes down to the laundry room when some underwear fell out. I picked them up and put them back in. Just as I approached the stairs, some fell out again. Frustrated, I thought "I'll just kick it down the stairs and pick it up when I get there." So I attempted to do this, but managed to put my foot through the strap of a bra, so when I went to kick the clothes as I stepped forward, the hooks in the bra caught in the thick carpet. The momentum sent me flying down the seven or eight stairs, making a perfect arc, all while still holding on to the plastic laundry basket. Just before I hit the landing, I thought, "If I don't let go, I'll break my wrists." So, I let go and landed on the rectangle, Rubbermaid laundry basket. It was already torn on one side, so under my considerable weight, it smashed out flat like a daisy.
Shaken, I tried to stand up, but it felt like there was a nail going through the top of my foot. I scooted on my butt down the other 7 or 8 stairs and grab a phone to call hubby. He took me to the hospital, where it turns out I broke my ankle and my foot.
While at the hospital, they had to try to push my foot back into place, so they could wrap it in a soft splint. I'm yelling "Ow, ow, ow" and hubby's calling me a big wuss and telling me to suck it up. The doctor looks at us and says, "You must be married."
"How can you tell?"
"Boyfriends will pretend to care."
So, this was my avatar at one time: