Let it be known that I was happily going about my business these past couple months without thinking about it — and then it hit, slithering into my head like a snake of a subconscious idea.

I had not taken a digger this year yet.

Believe me there has been plenty of opportunity to do so, especially considering the abnormal amount of rain we’ve had this winter, which promptly froze.

Throw into this racket that our driveway and walks aren’t the easiest to keep free of ice. In the back, water pools easily, spilling over onto the driveway, making simple walks to the garage and car feel like walking through a minefield — or cow pasture. Every step is thoughtfully placed in an effort to contain the dancer-style grace required to ghost over the dangerous patches.

Still, it seems, Jack Frost would not be denied this year and really, I probably had it coming.

The thought came simply enough. Our sports reporter Rocky Hulne and myself were walking over to an Austin boys basketball game after a thaw and then freeze with precipitation. The walk, both there and back, was perilous but we navigated with the ease and style of two people used to walking in these conditions.

Not long after we got more of what I scientifically call “crap,” icing the area and making life difficult. And not long after that it came time for me to put our Christmas tree to the curb where the fine collectors of Christmas trees, Pacelli students, would pick it up. You can see where this is going, but please wait for the ending. I promise, no spoilers.

The night before I forgot to the put the tree out, so the next morning I put some ice melt down — you know, to melt the ice — and then went in the house to collect the gloves I forgot.

I took my shoes off, but because I didn’t want to tie them again — because, let’s face it, I’m lazy — I slipped on tennis shoes. Mistake one.

At this point, things resembled a horror movie. You know that point in every movie where our heroine is in the house, by themselves with no light and they hear a noise.

Instead of running for her life, they choose to investigate, calling out the name of a friend. “Billy? Billy, is that you? Come on, Billy, this isn’t funny anymore.”

You, as an audience member, know what our heroine doesn’t know. Billy has been killed by our hidden monster and now our heroine is in danger and so you inwardly yell, “No! Run, don’t go in the room!”

Now you have a better idea of where this is going.

I sauntered out of the house, enjoying the bite of the morning because according to you people I’m weird for liking winter. I walked to the west side of the garage and began wrestling the tree from its plastic bag, succeeding with minimal amount of effort.

Picking it up I turned the corner and began walking out to the street, but before I could get more than two steps, the Christmas tree executed a take down that any high school wrestling fan could appreciate.

In what seemed like the scantest of seconds, I was on my back, the tree firmly on top of me, executing the pin. I quickly and mentally went down my whole body to see if anything was damaged, besides my pride.

In that time there may have been people driving by, but none stopped perhaps because they were embarrassed at their behavior of laughing at me: a pair of feet sticking out from under a Christmas tree. Perhaps they even heard the vocabulary, so salty that the ice that brought me down in conjunction with the tree started melting.

Throwing the tree off me and satisfied that the only thing hurt on me was a bruised hip, I sprung up, looked around and kicked the tree — which nearly brought me down a second time.

Oh, cause and effect, you aren’t getting me this time.

Is there a moral to this?

Well, don’t use tennis shoes to take your tree to the curb on ice is probably the big one. The close runner up is this: Be careful of your Christmas tree. It’s probably got a good chance of making the Minnesota State Wrestling Tournament.