I’ve fallen, and I’m 90 percent sure I can’t get up.

Moments ago, I was scurrying up my neighbor’s walk, unfashionably late for a ladies’ brunch when, suddenly, the heel of my ridiculously high platform shoe landed smack in a crack in the concrete. KA-BLOOEY! I came tumbling down like Saddam’s statue in Baghdad. (Thankfully, no one was around to cheer and dance joyously in the street.)

Instead, two ladies I’ve never met come racing out of the front door, looks of terror on their faces.

“You okay?! Are you hurt?!?”

From my grotesque position, physically impossible for anyone but a state fair contortionist, I smile through clenched teeth and say, “I’m fine. I’m fine. Talk about making an entrance, huh?”

(What am I supposed to do? Tell them the truth? Admit to these poor horrified women that my knee feels like it’s impaled on a hot poker? That my hindquarters have lost all feeling? And my right foot is pointing 180 degrees backward? Not exactly brunch banter, you know?)

“I’m fine, really,” I reassure them, while sending telepathic signals with my eyes: Call 911! Call 911!

My rescuers proffer their hands for assistance, but there is apprehension in their eyes. It’s the look that says, “We’ll help, but God help you if you pull us down with you!” I politely shoo them away, steady myself with trembling arms, and slowly uncoil to a standing position.

Finally upright, I take stock of my 50-year-old body. All systems appear to be “go.” Hallelujah! No hospital bracelet for me today!

I brush the dirt from my trousers, silently cursing the fashion industry for making pants 3 inches too long, forcing average women to buy wobbly, too-high shoes because we’re too lazy to hem them up. It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. Designers, shoemakers and orthopedic surgeons. They’re in cahoots!

As I hobble through the door, I’m surprisingly shaken. My legs are like overcooked fettuccini, my palms are perspiring, and my voice is an octave too high.

I sit down next to a friend to eat. As we chat about our kids, my mind wanders back to the numerous pratfalls of my past:

Age 11: Easter Sunday Mass. Standing room only. I am leaning against the wall in my new patent leather shoes when – SCHWOOP! – my feet go flying out from under me. My tailbone hits the floor with a crack. It’s one of those blows that make you gulp for air in quick, high-pitched gasps. The priest looks over, disapprovingly. My siblings are laughing so hard they can’t look down, much less help me up.

Age 16: Bounding down stairs to the lower level of a shopping center, wearing a mini-skirt and new Dr. Scholl clogs – KER-PLUNK! – I tumble, head over heels, landing face down-fanny up in front of a crowded barbershop. Not one “gentleman” jumps up to lend me a hand. I presume they don’t want to lose their place in line. Or, considering my compromising position, go to jail. (Ironically, it was at this age I earned an “A” on balance beam in P.E. class.)

Age: 18: BOING, BOING, BOING, SPLAT! Face meets pavement at least four times my freshman year at KU, typically when scampering down the steps of Wescoe Hall at the 10:20 class change. Each time, throngs of students literally step over me. (It was a campus without pity in 1974.)

Age 28: Showing off on roller skates, trying to relive glory days after 16-year hiatus from the rink. CR-RASH! Sprained wrist diagnosed the next day.

Age 45: Attempt to negotiate step while rushing to answer phone fails. BLAMMA! Family hastens to help but hysterical laughter hinders their efforts. Emergency room doc resets broken pinkie.

Back in the present, I worry. What about next time? Absent a new wardrobe made exclusively from bubble wrap, I could really hurt myself one of these days.

Should I buy one of those panic button pendant necklaces? Program my cell phone to speed dial the E.R.? Or double my daily dose of calcium and take my chances?

The brunch wraps up, and I say my goodbyes. Hobbling down the walk, eyes fixed to the ground, I resolve to take it slow and be more careful. And pitch those lethal platforms and every last pair of high heels into the trash.

And I will, too. Just as soon as Ralph Lauren starts sizing his women’s pants by waist and inseam.