I went out tonight for my nightly walk around the neighborhood. When I walk, I walk quickly and I don’t like to stop or slow down, so I set my steps at a pace where I can maneuver right, then left around other pedestrians and I zigzag around blocks so I never have to wait for a light to change before I can cross a street.

It’s still pretty chilly out here—the “real feel” temperature is 8 degrees this evening—and I had my hands jammed into my pockets to keep my fingers from getting frostbitten. As I rounded the corner on E. 3rd Street, a couple was approaching me and, instead of moving out of the way to let them pass (because hardly anyone around here ever moves out of the way to let someone else go by), I stepped up on the curb and onto a mound of snowy ice left over from the last storm. Before I knew it, but, yet, somehow in slow motion, I went down, landing on my left knee—giving myself a good-looking scrape like I was some twelve-year-old skateboarder—and caught my fall by grabbing the sidewalk with my wrists. It’s been a very long time since I’ve fallen like that and it felt weird, but I knew it was going to happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it mid-action.

The odd thing is that, as they were passing me (before I fell), I overheard the couple’s conversation and the guy was telling his girlfriend that he doesn’t like to keep his hands in his pockets in case he falls. Was he clairvoyant? Was I dreaming the whole thing? I don’t believe in coincidences—and I’ve been getting the feeling that the universe has been trying to tell me something lately—so what’s all this about?

Today’s recipe:

Milk. Don’t cry over it.