The Picture of Elephantine Grace

Chris over at Rude Cactus and Aimee of Greeblemonkey fame, (who we have to hate for awhile because she just got back from Hawaii..hiss), have cooked up:

What this means is that we are shamelessly asking you to make yourself known by leaving a comment. Not that we are insecure comment whores or anything but..

I have my steady few that comment all of the time but for some reason, the tens of you that read me prefer to email. I understand perfectly. I'm shy like that, too. Anyway, I'm supposed to give you a specific little something something to comment on and this is usually done via the telling of some horribly embarrassing story. The trouble is that most of those involve situations that I'd hate for my mum to read without first ingesting a pharmaceutical or two. And recently, I've acquired a couple of new readers from New Zealand (hi Mrs. J! Hi Leisa!) who after reading several posts, are probably already very concerned for Dallas. So, after mentally sifting through the debris of my youth, I have landed on a story that wouldn't get anything stronger than a PG rating.

In eighth grade, I was fourteen, athletic and newly interested in all things distinctly girlie. Up to that point, I'd had very little use for boys except as referees for our hockey games. I wore my hair like Dorothy Hamill.

Overnight, everything changed. I discovered Maybelline Great Lash mascara and Lip Smackers. My male friends suddenly became much more interesting. And I bought my first pair of high heeled shoes, which launched a lifetime obsession.

It was announced that there would be a school dance called the "Spring Fling". My father gave me $50 to get an outfit. I spent 12 bucks on the dress and the rest on the most magnificent, 3.5" (9cm), black velvet stilettos. They hurt. I teetered like barfly in them but they made my bum look fabulous because it was constantly flexed in an effort to maintain my balance. LIFELONG OBSESSION. I was the picture of adolescent pseudo-sophistication.

The day of the dance, we had rain and temperatures that were cold, even for April. That night, the rain froze making the concrete steps leading into the school an icy mess. My father suggested that I might be more comfortable wearing my sneakers until I was safely inside the school doors but noooooo, not me. I was Scarlett O'Hara in the damn drapes and I was going to make my grand entrance. Besides, I had practiced for hours getting in and out of the car with my skirt and heels on. I had the side sweep motion down to a science.

And then quite predictably, it all went horribly wrong. I took that first stair and felt the bottom of my foot slide back as I pitched forward. To stop my face from meeting the concrete, I reached out with both hands to the left and grasped the iron railing, twisting violently around, knees splayed, pantyhose ripped and slid on my arse, then tailbone and finally came to rest on the small of my back. I broke one of the heels of my shoes. At that very moment, as I was inelegantly flailing to get up, the boy I had a serious crush on chose that moment to pull up to the curb, exit his parent's car and gaze at me with a mixture of pity and barely controlled laughter. I wanted to die. Instead, I limped back to my Dad's car, got in and begged him to take me home. His shoulders were shaking and every few minutes he let out a little squeak and wiped his eyes. Awful. The worst.

So that's it. Feel free to delurk and share a moment of your own. And hey, thanks for reading.