Before I tell your the real story, I have to tell you how much I love H&M. I mean, when I learned there was no H&M in Portland, it was almost a deal breaker. But then I learned that one would eventually open and I decided to settle. Life is all about compromise, is it not?
Why do I love H&M? Well, their stuff is adorable. And it fits me (which is huge) and is reasonably priced. It's my store.
It wasn't always the case. Used to be, they were only in Europe and I'd hear tell of this fabulous store from my cousin who lived in Spain. I stepped foot in my first H&M when I went to New York in 2002. And I was instantly hooked. Then when I lived in Paris, I also lived in H&M. As I walked the streets of Paris, my ass whittling down to nothing and my American jeans hanging off of me, H&M (pronounced osh ay em in French) provided all my new clothing on my small budget.
By the time I got home to California, H&Ms were finally opening on the west coast. First San Francisco then Los Angeles and the finally more inland. The last few years, I've been spoiled by having an H&M somewhat nearby.
So you can imagine how excited I was for this new store. We walked inside, I took in the splendor, noticed there were concrete steps down into the store, and promptly fell down them.
It was horrifyingly slo-mo. Just when I thought I was done falling, nope, no I wasn't. I just kept going. As a group of people sat and watched me tumble, my friends behind me with nothing they could do. My dignity was hurt of course, and my ankle started aching.
In a more witty moment, I may have gotten up and bowed. Instead I shook it off like a champ.
See, I fall down quite a bit. I can't imagine I haven't blogged about this before, but even if I have, too damn bad. Read it again and like it. Thaaaaat's a good reader.
I have a theory that all dancers are clumsy because we use up all our grace dancing. There's none left for real life. That's certainly been true for me.
I can't tell you how many times I've fallen up and down the stairs in my house. Usually up. I fell down the stairs to my office at my last job at least once a month. Fell down the steps to the Admin building at my university more times than I can count. They've finally fixed those wobbly steps, but it was too late for me.
When I worked in Hollywood, I managed a large Victoria's Secret at a chi-chi mall. You may know it. It was two stories with a marble staircase. A slippery marble staircase. And as I'd run up those stairs to deal with another asshole customer, I'd fall. More often than I'd like.
In my defense, it was really the stair's fault. Once, I was standing in the foyer of the store and greeted a customer cheerily as he entered with his plastic girlfriend (she wasn't a blowup doll, she was just from Hollywood.). He proceeded to mock my voice and go up the stairs, which he promptly fell down.
Sometimes karma's a bitch. And sometimes I love her.
I hardly wear heels anymore. And pairing me with heels and alcohol? Never a good idea. I once tumbled down the steps of a somewhat hip Hollywood bar (I was maybe 23 at the time), breaking a heel and inciting the laughter of the very hot yet very douchey bouncer.
There is a reason women give up heels for sensible shoes. Safety.
I fell down a lot in my teen years too.
I was on dance team in high school, obviously, which they morphed into a color guard which sucked monkey ass, but which afforded me the chance to learn flags which was actually pretty fun. Anyway, it was the first football game of the year and we were performing at half-time in the most hideous Chiquita banana costume monstrosities. Embarrassing enough, yes? Between numbers, I was to kneel down and switch flags. Simple enough. Oh no. Not simple at all. Instead of kneeling, my foot slipped on the grass and I ended up face first in the ground in front of a cackling cheer leading squad and my ex boyfriend.
I faked a sprained ankle the rest of the week. Gotta turn those cackles to sympathy right?
Senior year, that same ex boyfriend gave my friends and I a ride to school in his very cool sports car. Don't ask me what kind. It was black and two-door. I don't give a shit about cars unless they were made before 1932. Just kidding, I don't even really care then. I just think they look cool.
ANYWAY, so I sat in the backseat and the ex opened the door to let me out and pushed the front seat forward. So then of course I trip over the seat belt and end up face-first in the asphalt. He graciously helped me up without laughing and then I killed myself.
I also tripped at my high school graduation. Once again, slipped on the damn football field grass (they really have to stop watering the grass) as I was walking to accept my fake piece of paper that was rolled to look like a diploma. But that time I caught myself before landing on my face and then took a large bow. I was a huge hit.
(So I just realized this whole paragraph I also wrote about tripping at my college graduation was erased. That means the photo below now makes no sense. All you need to know is that I tripped, but managed not to fall. Hooray)
|I'm happy I didn't fall on my face|
As a dancer, I've had many sprained ankles. I'm ashamed to admit more of those due to tumbles outside of dance class than in.
I take my calcium, because I don't want to be the 30 year old lady with a broken hip. I fear for my elderly years.
Maybe I'll just invest in a wheelchair now. Just to be safe.