Splat!

I hope my posts about falling don't become too much of a recurring theme, but here is a stellar installment!


Last week, we had a big event at work. It included major stakeholders and executives from around the country.


I did my best to play my part and squeezed into the last suit in my closet that wouldn't cut of my circulation. I put on my ugly but sensible shoes figuring it would be better to choose function over fashion.


I spent the day walking back and forth from room to room, putting out fires and schmoozing at an epic level, something I don't do very well most of the time.


All the while, my feet were throbbing in my sensible shoes and my legs were getting heavier and heavier. By the time the event was over, I was trying to casually find a pillar to lean on looking classy rather than as rough as I was actually feeling.


Wouldn't you know it, just as I was crafting my creative exit at the wee hour of .. ahem.. 10 pm.. the president asked if I would take one of our senior executives upstairs to get her things. What a golden opportunity to connect with her one-on-one and make a lasting impression.


Be careful what you wish for.


I walked with her even though by now it felt like I was walking through sludge while my legs were being strangled by a medieval vice. My bones were rubbing against each other. My joints were aching and my back was as stiff as a board. All that from walking and standing in sensible shoes.


But, I kept going and tried to ignore the pain. I walked fast so I could keep up with this power broker in the company. I was holding my own in the conversation, engaging her in a strategic analysis of our latest initiative and then... you guessed it... I tripped on my own feet which I was dragging by now.


Splat, indeed.


I landed on my knee which left a massive bruise. She of course panicked and asked if I was ok. I was trying to think of something clever, but I figured getting off the floor would be a more useful endeavour. Since I couldn't get up off the floor, I crawled over to the nearest chair and pushed myself up all the while telling her to go gather her things and I would get her a cab.


I guess that left an unforgettable impression.


Thankfully she was too tired to dwell on it.


Thankfully I got out some intelligent information before dropping like a sack of potatoes.


Most of all, I am thankful I wore a suit and not a dress.

Camouflage on the Red Carpet

Yes, this is going to be one of those "first world problems" type posts. Who gets freaked out about going to a red carpet event with celebrities, important locals (or influencers as we in PR call them) and generally swishy people?

Well, when you walk with your eyes to the ground to make sure you don't trip over something as complicated as your own feet, it's a bit of an anxious time.

I thought my cold could get me out of it. Alas, I must be there to ensure I meet those swishy people and make an impression. Just what kind of an impression remains to be seen.

I am the Queen of Camouflage so this shouldn't be so hard. But turning 40 came with the gift of a body shift and I still am stupidly optimistic that I can squeeze into my old clothes. Never mind that I have been handing my clothes to my friend's 12-year old and they fit her.

Oh the ironies on so many levels. You never realize how slim you were until you aren't anymore. I swear if I could do it again, I would never complain about being fat if I could go back to my old size.

Regardless, I refuse to buy anything new so I must now go through my wardrobe looking for something that is new enough to pass off as elegant, or old enough to pass off as trendy. Somewhere in this mess of dresses is the classic little black dress.

Classic because it skirts the knee so you can't see the muscle wasting at my thighs, loose enough so you can't see my distended belly (caused by lordosis but looks like I swallowed a bowling ball), with a neck wide enough that I can put it over my head with the limitations of my shoulders post surgery, no buttons or zippers at the back which I can't reach. And, it's kind of cute.

Now the shoes. Damn, can't get around that. Only have open-toe slingbacks I bought from India 10 years ago which are falling apart, but have the right heel. Never mind it is January in Canada. Can't bend over enough to paint my toenails though. But I guess we'll just have to deal with that. Hopefully people will be more interested in who is walking the red carpet, and with whom, as opposed to my chewed up toes.

Such a disgrace.. ahem.

Now, I just have to figure out how to avoid stairs, stages, hills, inclines, uneven pavement, dancing, running, bending, low cars, low chairs, having to hold more than one thing in my hands, carrying anything heavy, getting pushed over in the crowds of hundreds, getting caught in the wrong light so my FSH facial flaws show and of course falling since I won't be able to get up.

Better wear underwear... just in case. :)