I always hoped I would be the kind of girl who just walks down the street like a graceful gazelle, occasionally flipping my hair and swinging my purse with ease.
And I like to think that, for the most part, I am.
And then every now and then I act more like a baby gazelle who got a little vashnigyered.
Case in point, the time I was alone in London for a day and decided to treat myself to a matinee showing of Singin’ in the Rain and a wander around Soho. It was a hot/cold/muggy/rainy/sunny kind of day in London which meant that as I wandered through the streets looking for a bistro to sit at and read, I managed to sweat through everything I was wearing in places I didn’t even realize I could sweat.
And then I saw Singin’ in the Rain and it was wonderful, except for the fact that my femurs were about two inches too long for the seat I was sitting in and my knees left permanent indentations in the back of the seat in front of me.
Once the show ended, everyone wandered toward the exit doors in a happy state of post-musical bliss. I was a happy single girl enjoying her day in London, hoping to remain inconspicuous as I headed to find my friends. Unfortunately, in my dreamlike state of imagined awesomeness, I miscounted the stairs out the door and stumbled like a runway model with shoes that weren’t made for walking.
I never actually fell. I caught myself. Thanks to the years of experience I have of catching myself when my legs randomly betray me.
So I did what I normally do: I looked at no one and marched away with my head held high.
Because there’s not much else you can do in a situation like that.