In Monday's post, should you have missed it (which you shouldn't have), I discussed the sheer hilarity of watching Leggings-As-Pants Girl trip some businesswoman at the top of the Metro escalator. The woman biffed so hard she lost a shoe, like a Dane Cook-style hit & run, which I, of course, adored.
And yesterday morning, while crossing New Hampshire with a cinnamon raisin bagel and a cup of fruit from Cosi, my black & white tweed flats betrayed me. Their not-so-superbly tractioned soles gave way to the dewy morning concrete, and I royally WIPED OUT mid-crossing. I literally dropped to my knees in a baseball-style slide right in the center of the crosswalk. I dragged my pathetic self to the center island, where I proceeded to whimper, bleed & blush furiously as two highly attractive men offered to call me a cab.
My ego isn't nearly as bruised as my swollen right knee, but my karma sure did catch the hint.