Monday, July 2, 2012

A call to the men of America & that one time I fell into breakfast

I thought a lot about embarrassing moments this weekend after becoming embarrassed for the men of America. I tried to go the movie theater but it was more crowded than I had ever seen it. Because of Magic Mike. As I told you Friday, I ain't dead in the loins yet. I get the appeal of a stripping Channing Tatum (still having a little trouble with the appeal of greasy old Matthew McConaughey). 

Men of America, what are you not doing for your ladies? I know what you aren't doing for me. I've dated an odd variety of you over the last 15 years and am currently single. But those theaters weren't filled just with ladies like me. Dudes, strip for your ladies so they don't have to act like 14-year-olds at a Bieber concert thus ruining my single-girl Friday night in the dark with my pretend Hollywood friends. (And you thought this wasn't all about me.)

So instead of seeing a movie, I replayed my most embarrassing moment in my head. It's been six years - I'm over the horror; feel free to laugh. I used to attend an annual national conference for work. I had served as the association's webmaster for several years and was on the Board of Directors during the year of my moment. I tell you these things to illustrate that people knew who I was. Remaining anonymous was not an option. Breakfast was served each morning in one of those weird buildings that you enter thinking you are on the ground floor but you are really on the third floor or so. Of course breakfast was on the real first floor, right off the stairs. As in, you had to descend the stairs into breakfast. You probably know where this is going (especially considering I gave it away in the title of this post).

I struggle a bit with social anxiety (but am also an attention whore - it gets weird up in here; here being me). I had to psyche myself up to walk into a room full of colleagues chowing down on cold eggs and pastries because I knew that everyone would watch me walk down the stairs. That's just what people do - they turn and stare at the person entering the room. You do it too. One morning I lost my footing and rolled/bounced down two flights of stairs, laptop and notepad tumbling after me. The landing between the flights was just a short-lived reprieve. I kept going. I didn't stop until I was flat on my back in front of the breakfast buffet. 

Everyone stopped eating. Everyone stopped talking. All eyes on me. I stared at the ceiling as seventeen hours a few seconds passed until a nice Indian man ran over to pick me up and hug me. Don't give me that "why does he have to be Indian?" crap - he just was. Picking someone up and hugging them after they've fallen down stairs seems like a super nice thing to do but for the love of all that is right in this world, refrain! That person is in pain and your hug will just make it worse. I only suffered some pretty amazing bruises. Nothing broken. Not even the laptop. I got to answer the question "are you okay" at least one billion times and relive the incident for people who didn't see it but certainly heard about it for the remainder of the conference. Pretty sure the conference attendees now find me unforgettable. 

Your turn. Tell me a story...

This is what I hear every time Matty Mac opens his mouth. At least he looks like he showered. 


  1. I think we need to be bff's. Is that cool?

    My young 16 year old self was on a date with the cutest boy from another school... tall, wavy blondish/brown hair... volleyball player. Total dream boat. He took me on a romantic date to the beach (that's what us Chicagoans like to call the shores of Lake Michigan). It was dark and the wooden stairs were in horrible shape. Needless to say I Mary Lou Retton'd my way down the stairs. Not cute, not cute at all. I was so embarrassed that I let him go to second base just so he'd forget about the freakin' tumble. Apparently I was a wee bit whore-ish.


    1. We can totally be bff's. I loved your story a normal amount until I read the last sentence. Now I love it too much.

  2. Your newest reader and it's not your mom:)

  3. In the spring of this year, I was leaving for work all dolled up in my Copper Possum apron and my fancy platform flip flops. Gulf Power crews had been on our street doing tree work all week and this day they happened to be cutting on the giant live oak next door. With a few exceptions, our house and the one next door are the only ones in our neighborhood that still have our beautiful old live oaks because Ivan convinced everyone else that trees are a huge liability during a hurricane. Anytime I hear a chainsaw near one of these trees, I'm super interested in what's going on. So I take off down the driveway in total Gladys Kravitz mode, glaring up at the guys in the bucket truck, trying to figure out whether they're just trimming the tree or taking it out completely and thinking about confronting them to find out who authorized the work, since I figured our trees were next. There is a spot on the edge of the driveway, right at the point where it starts to slope down to the street that's washed out a little (probably something to do with the shade from the oak trees making it hard to have grass.) I bet you're way ahead of me, right? So I slipped off my shoe and stumbled. Not too uncommon, but I was at the top of the incline and realized pretty quickly that I wasn't going to recover my balance. Next thing I know, I'm sprawled out, face down in the driveway, covered in oak blossoms. I caught myself with my palms splayed out and was incredibly lucky that I didn't break my wrists (or my neck or some teeth or anything else.) With as much dignity as I could muster, I got up and collected my sunglasses and the contents of my pockets from the street and looked up at the guy in the bucket truck expecting to see hysterical laughter (I'da probably laughed if I'd been the guy in the bucket truck.) Either those guys were perfect gentlemen and buttoned their lips - in which case I know who had the best lunchtime story to share - or they totally missed it. I came away with some pretty impressive road rash in the palms of my hands and some major pain the next day, but escaped mostly unscathed.
    Growing up the youngest of three girls, there was always a sister around to point and laugh when I got hurt. I grew up thinking how hateful they were for doing that, but now that I've taken the most dramatic tumble of my life and had nobody there to acknowledge it, I kind of miss it. My middle sister did suggest later that either my gut or my triple d's saved me from busting up my face. Sweet, huh? Bonus: working retail and having to keep my hands bandaged for the next month so people don't think the brown streaks on my palms are something else when I'm counting back their change. :/

    1. Thanks for sharing and I'm glad you didn't break anything. I hate that moment when you just know you won't recover. And I totally get being bummed about no witnesses.

      P.S. I just realized the greatness of platform flip flops about a week ago. Where have I been?