I don't know why they call slippers "slippers." Mine have rubber (or something) soles so that I don't slip. But they're not as comfy as socks, and so sometimes I can't be bothered to find them and put them on.
Yesterday I was heinously uncomfortable. Not in pain, exactly, but my bottom was sore from sitting so much, and I was more swollen than ever, and I hadn't been able to sleep the night before so I was exhausted, and I kept laughing hysterically which made all the wounds on my right side remind me that they were there . . . and then I'd start crying hysterically instead. (It didn't help, by the way.)
At supper time I decided I was in better shape standing up than lying down, so maybe I'd go down and help my dad with whatever last-minute details he might need help with. I did not bother to put on my slippers.
On the top step, my socks slid and my feet flew out from under me. I'm pretty sure if I had been less tired and less wounded my fumble-and-slide down the entire flight of stairs would have seemed really funny to me; as it was, it got the circulation going again in my posterior, which was sort of a plus. But the actual process was somewhat terrifying; I just couldn't catch myself or right myself at all, and on reflex I flung my right arm out and grabbed onto the banister. I caught the banister, but my slippery socks had the upper hand, and I just kept going . . . at the end I yelped and my dad and Heather-of-Six came running and I burst into tears.
The tears were purely from the terror and shock. The weirdest thing about it all was that I hardly hurt at all . . . and none of my stitches ripped. However, I think they're considering suturing my non-slip slippers to my feet from now on.