If you haven’t yet witnessed the spectacle of me trying to move in any given direction without tripping over myself, let me tell you, you’re missing out.
My super-fabulous, adds-four-inches-to-my-five-foot-frame wedges are not the perpetrator; we can’t pin my incessant tumbles on my choice of footwear. Oh no, my problem is much, much bigger.
Gravity.
I could be standing stock still in flat feet (that is, wearing no shoes whatsoever) and inevitably I’d still fall. I don’t know how it happens.
What can I say? Gravity loves me. It never fails to pull me down into a great, big bear hug.
These incidents are not few and far between, either. They happen daily. Sometimes hourly. Coincidentally, it happens more frequently when I try to will myself not to fall.
Earlier this year, for example, I accompanied my friend Aimee to the supermarket to pick up a sandwich for lunch. It was an excuse to get out of the office and participate in some shameless idle gossip, I’ll admit. There we were, walking down the chip aisle when – bam! – down I go. And I took a portion of the Lay’s display with me. I do blame the heels for that particular fall. And the over-waxing of the store floor, perhaps.
Another memorable spill took place at my parent’s house while I was trying to walk up the stairs to my bedroom while simultaneously talking on my cell phone. Apparently, it takes all of my concentration to ascend a staircase because four steps up and I tumbled right back down. I don’t just fall down stairs; I fall up them, too. Thank God for the carpeting.
Even standing upright poses a challenge for me. I tend to sway and sometimes, in trying to correct my body’s natural movements (however slight), I end up on my ass, or at the very least with a twisted ankle.
Quite frankly, I’m amazed I’ve never broken a bone.
I suppose I’ll give gravity just the tiniest bit of credit for that one. It pulls me down, sure, but somehow it always cushions my fall.
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