As we were riding the up escalator to leave, he decided to throw himself into a racing dive just as we reached the top. He does stuff like that. Dives onto the mall floor and "swims" along. On the floor, it's cute. On the escalator, not so much.
He let go of my hand, dove, hit belly-first right at the top. Snagged his shirt in the strainer teeth as Grampa snatched him up in a reflexive panic.
The machinery ate the bottom his shirt seam off, but no damage to the underlying skin.
No harm, no foul. Good way to give Grampa a heart-attack, though ...
3 comments:
Naw, with reflexes that good, Grampa's in good shape. You just have to do stuff like that more often so you get used to the panic and the adrenalin rush again.
Over the years, I have spiked enough fight or flight syndrome to punch holes in a battleship. Enough adrenaline to rouse a stadium full of narcoleptics. Not so much these days because I go out of my way to avoid it, but in my young-and-more-stupid period, I enjoyed what one calls a checkered past. I now and then allude to it, since all the statues of limitation have run out, but I would not turn back the clock to run with the devil again, thank you ...
You do realize that I now can never permit my son to read this until he's old enough to know better...
(Couldn't resist the line.)
And I'm amazed I never tried that.
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