I did a pretty dumb thing. Granted, it wasn’t an entirely avoidable thing, and I took as many precautions as I could, but the inevitable happened, and now I must deal with the consequences.

One cold, icy night before Christmas, I took a little tumble.

It may or may not have been because of the ice. It may or may not have been because of the dogs. It may or may not have been because I’m getting older and considerably less agile than I used to be. It may or may not have been a combination of any or all those things. Regardless, the stars aligned and down I went.

The dogs, which one of my friends has semi-affectionately dubbed “The Beastie Boys,” capitalized on this unexpected meeting at their level, and pounced gleefully.

With my ankle twisted one way and my knee popping in another direction, I saw a few of those aligned stars, and crossed my fingers that I wasn’t about to get dragged for miles by my two mini-horse team. While my brain was telling me to get up ASAP, my limbs were vigorously protesting, and it took a few good minutes until I was able to uncrumple myself enough to even think about getting upright.

My ankle snapped back into place pretty quickly. It’s had a lot of practice. My knee, however, my knee was extremely displeased with me and wasn’t shy about letting me know.

The Beasties seemed to understand that playtime was over and for once walked home meekly next to me. When I got home, ibuprofen, ice, and I went right to bed. I was relieved when I woke up the next morning to nothing more than stiffness and a few twinges.

Over the next few weeks, the ibuprofen started becoming less of a late-night snack and more a three times a day meal. My knee decided the best course of action was to just stop working at random times, although in retrospect, maybe they weren’t random. They mostly seemed to happen when I was walking the dogs or carrying a large basket of laundry down the steps. After a month of this, I decided it was time to listen, and finally took the old girl to the doctor.

I’m a little leery of the knee doctors. The last time I had a non-functional knee, it took three different doctors 9 months to figure out I had Lyme. We don’t have a great track record. At least my knee at that time was stable, it just always hurt like the devil.

This was definitely different, and I had a clear recollection of the inciting incident. My doctor visits and diagnostic procedures happened relatively quickly, and although I haven’t had my official follow up appointment yet, I can understand a lab report well enough to know that a “complete tear through the dorsal root medial meniscus” probably isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Of course, I’ve asked for the opinions of all my remotely medically associated friends and everyone I know who has ever had a knee injury, and I’m hearing the “s” word thrown around a lot more than I’d like.

I’ll admit it: I’m a giant chicken. I’ve never had any kind of surgery before. Although technically, having my wisdom teeth removed counts as one, I did that with a lot of Novocain, and I hardly consider it legitimate surgery.

The only time I’ve ever stayed in a hospital was when I had my kids, and even though they were complete messes, for me, everything was incredibly routine and non-invasive. So, just entertaining the thought of the physical process of surgery is causing me some major heartburn.

Then, there is the whole other side of the coin. What happens if I am actually laid up for a while? I can already see the kids starting to panic as my ability to do minor household chores, like the laundry and dog walking has been impacted.

Sure, they’re being inconvenienced by not having me wait on them hand and foot, but it’s more than that. I’m their one and only remaining parental resource and they don’t like being reminded that I am vulnerable too. (I’m kidding about the waiting on them part, for the most part, I am incredibly lucky to have very dependable kids.)

Sure, I know I have a village of friends to call on who will help out with things like making us a meal or picking the kids up, or everyone’s favorite chore, walking the Beastie Boys. But I’ve had to ask for so much help this past year, and I hate feeling like I will never stop having my hand out.

This is also a sobering look at the future. My kids aren’t always going to be here to lend a hand. I’m at the age where things are going to start breaking down, and although I’m optimistic that my knee isn’t quite done yet, I’m acutely aware of the onset of physical limitations.

Suddenly, things like filling up the coal bucket and carrying ash tubs a few times a week don’t seem to be realistically sustainable activities as I slide down the back side of middle age. I can hope that as the dogs age, they mellow out a little bit and start to move at my speed. (Those of you who have met them are laughing at this notion.)

These things didn’t seem so insurmountable when I had a partner by my side to help, and to laugh at my decrepitude, while I returned the favor. Now, though, it’s causing more than a little panic on my part. Although I’m glad I’ve been given this sneak peek in what I hope is enough time to make some proactive changes, and maybe take more precautions to protect my joints, it has still managed to bring me down quite a bit.

I remember my grandparents, in their later years, trying to help each other put on their socks. Neither of them could bend over well enough to reach their own feet, but between the two of them, they could get the other one’s socks on for them. At that point in my life, I knew enough to appreciate that that’s where 60-plus years of marriage gets you.

For now, I’m going to get back to making sure I keep up with my yoga, and plan to wear flip-flops for as many months of the year as I can. And, I’m going to ask for some good vibes in my direction so that maybe I can skate through this debacle with some rest and therapy.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News.