Just Call it a Tuesday

I virtually never tie my Sorels.  I tuck my laces into the boots, put my feet in, then tuck my pants.  And so, almost every day during the winter, a hanging loop from one boot catches a hook from the other, and I fall down.  You'd think I'd just start tying my laces, but unless I also have cause to wear snow pants, that'll just never happen.

Tonight I rushed from work, picked up my kids, and headed to the gym in my boots.  My boys and I hurried across the lot, because class was starting in five minutes!  And then, at top speed, the thing that always happens happened.  The lace caught, my stride halted, my purse and backpack swung around my neck in choking fashion, and I went airborne.  I landed squarely on my chest, slid across the frozen sidewalk, and stopped abruptly against the building entrance.  Dane gave me a "hooooollly crap, mom" and several strangers paused to make sure I got up alright (which I totally did because this happens all the time).  I spent most of class making noises like a cat trying to cough up a hairball in an attempt to put my larynx back into it's natural position.  But seriously, this was just like a regular Tuesday.

And honestly, that kind of thing happens to me All. The. Time.
About a year ago, I was wearing red heels at work.  That day, I had some personal documents to deliver to a business located in my building, but serviced by a separate elevator bank.  I was sure I remembered what floor I was headed to, until I tried a couple without success.  I resigned myself to going back to the lobby to check the proper floor.  Reading my papers while entering the elevator, my heel caught in the space between elevator and floor.  I fell into the opening, throwing papers everywhere and only recovered in time to see the doors closing with one of my heels still on the outside.  I wasn't even sure which floor I had been on.

As the various professionals boarded at the lobby, I gave them each a nonchalant nod hello and then proceeded to press buttons for floors 19-25.  I think if my shoes had been a more subtle color that day, the fact that I was missing one may have gone unnoticed.  I calmly gave the group transfixed on me the explanation they were waiting for, "I fell into the elevator at an unknown floor and left a shoe behind."  As if that hadn't been obvious.  This happened on a Monday.  Or maybe it was a Tuesday.

During college, I waited tables.  I wore black tennis shoes at that job.  One afternoon a large family came in to celebrate an occasion.  The restaurant had a promotional drink that came in a bone-shaped plastic cup about a foot tall, and several family members had ordered one.  When it came time to start delivering food, I carried out a large tray loaded with plates in my left hand, balanced on my shoulder.  I stopped at the bar to pick up a small round tray of drinks which I carried waist-high in my right hand.  When I entered the section, people looked up at me as they normally do when they are expecting their order, but then they witnessed a miracle.  While I waited, arms loaded, for another server to bring me a stand for the large tray, a child tipped over his father's bone drink.  I quickly reached up my right foot and caught the drink at the top of the bone against my shoe laces.  Then, with perfect balance, I return it to it's original upright position without spilling a drop.  I will honestly never be able to explain how I did that, because I don't know.  I do know that Section C at Red Lobster in Greeley, Colorado gave me a standing ovation that day, and it was AWESOME!  I remember it was a Sunday.  But it could have been a Tuesday.

Everyone who's ever danced along side me knows that I'm really less about dancing, and more about doing aerobics, but dressed nicer.  So one night many years ago, while wearing a very cute pair of black sandals, my friend was not surprised that I took that opportunity to act like a ninja on the dance floor.  For the record, my ninja moves were really great for a long time.  Until the accident happened.  

One powerful kick and my sandal flew far, far away into the crowded darkness.  If I had been intoxicated, I might not have minded how sticky and wet the floor was, or that I just lost one half of my favorite pair of sandals.  But I did mind, and so I began the sheepish hop-a-long pursuit of my footwear.  

When I found the very Thor-like man holding my sandal, he presented it like Cinderella's slipper.  He then informed me my sandal had landed in his drink, knocking it out of his hand and into his super wet crotch.  Oops.
I offered to buy him a new drink, but he bought me one instead-which was a fantastic deal!  (I feel like I should say here to my single friends that I don't recommend shoe kicking at men as a general dating strategy because I think most men are more likely to be complete assholes about flying shoes dumping their drinks into their crotches).  In the end, my favorite pair of sandals were reunited, and I danced on into the night as a different sci-fi character.

I'm pretty that last story happened on a Saturday, but we'll just call it a Tuesday, too.