Finding My Ground

You asked if I'm good. I don't stay down, so do the math. Once I had both feet under me on that soft fabric, I scouted the perimeter and dropped down to the solid timber of the low table. No give here, just cold varnish and traction. There was an empty ceramic mug sitting in my path like an uninvited barricade. Instead of routing around it, I squared up, braced a shoulder against the glazed rim, and shoved it two inches aside to clear my lane. My joints hold just fine. The floor below is next.