Saturday, June 05, 2010

They no longer call me graceful. Wait, they never did.

Last night, I went to a retirement party for a couple of my co-workers. One retired to spend more time with her family -- despite her being too young to retire -- and the other moved on to another challenge. We're a big family, so we couldn't just have cake in the office. It wouldn't be right. We needed a send off.

The party was held at a swanky restaurant downtown. Since we never get a chance to dress up -- with our job there is no point, you'll likely just end up covered in something gross -- we all decided to go all out. I picked my favourite LBD, my 4 inch black an white polka dotted heels with red soles and even did my hair. It was a red letter day.

The party was awesome. Two other co-workers planned everything to a tee and our once boss now co-worker wrote one of the funniest speeches ever. Everyone talked and laughed and there was only a little work talk -- I didn't mean to bring it up, but seriously, some people.

I felt great. Everyone greatly admired my shoes and -- with two short breaks -- my feet didn't even hurt too much. Finally, the night was winding down -- my co-workers can't party like they did in the 80s -- and I decided to go home.

As I was leaving, one of the women whose party it was, came and gave me a huge hug. She told me she was going to miss me and then said the nicest thing anyone ever has, "You're the kind of woman I always wanted to be." Now, she was a little tipsy, but a drunk compliment is as good as any other. I left the party feeling like a million bucks.

Entering the foyer of the club to go outside, I felt a little bit like one of the Sex and the City girls -- very sophisticated and beautiful. I did my best 5th Avenue walk to the big wooden doors leading outside. Outside, the street lights twinkled, the air was crisp and fresh, and I noticed the people on the patio had looked up at me. I strutted like a peacock to the steps.

My heel -- which I'd conquered all evening -- caught on a slight roll in the carpet of the stairs. I catapulted from that spot and went down hard on my knees -- half on the step, half on the cement. My ankle twisted at a weird angle and my arms flailed wildly looking for something to hold on to.

Somehow, I recovered. I stood up quickly and strutted away from the building like nothing had happened.

I may never go to that club again.


  1. That's happened to the Sex in the city girls too so you're totally ok.

  2. I am glad you didn't wreck your ankle.
    Better bring those shoes and wear them here for everyday going into town to shop. Or for walking on cobblestone streets in Kyiv. You'll fit right in.

  3. I remember and love those shoes!


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