Last night I was at Houston’s for a drink, sporting some pretty swank riding boots. You know that feeling when you’re wearing something new, you know you’re looking good, and you prance around like Victoria Beckham. The overbearing scent of your confidence is slightly disgusting but you don’t care. They only wish they had boots like yours. And even still, they have huge feet so they definitely wouldn’t look as cute. I felt like that in these boots.
It was a good night, I was in good company (hi, lover) and there was a good looking crowd. I got up to find the restroom and make sure everyone noticed my boots. I’m pretty sure I heard ooohs and ahhhs, but that’s still unconfirmed. Anyway, I’m making my way back downstairs – who the eff only has restrooms on the second floor anyway? – and just as I started my strut past the kitchen and into the bar, a little gnome jumped out, tripped me and next thing I know I’m brushing off my knees.
Okay so maybe there was no gnome, but I do think somebody sprayed slick oil on the floor when I walked by because they were jealous of my boots.
A server walked by and I vaguely remember her asking if I was alright; the only thing I undeniably recall is her telling me that it was surprisingly graceful.
You’re damn right it was.
So I walked back over to my seat (and wine) at the bar asking my squeeze if he saw it. Explain to me why the first reaction after falling is to say, “Did you see that?!?!” If they saw it, they’d say something and if they didn’t, then shutyourmouth. But he didn’t and I still said something. I was halfway through describing the fall of a gazelle when the manager came over to check on me. She also asked if I was alright, interrupting my answer with, “just a bruised ego?” Umm, have we met? I have the ego of a gladiator and it’s going to take a lot more than a graceful slip to take me down. But, yes, you can buy me a glass of wine.
She asked to take down my information like we were in a car accident and said they’d like to follow up with me in a few days to make sure I’m okay. I told her that wasn’t necessary but she insisted (as did the random guy next to me who told the manager he was my lawyer). So I mentioned to her someone might want to clean the floor over there so no one else falls and she said, “our hardwood floors are frequently polished so they do become slippery sometimes.”
Well clearly this happens all the time and perhaps you should make them un-slippery.
I wasn’t upset until she made me feel like it was my fault. It was my fault for wearing amazing boots, for having the audacity to get up to use the restroom, for not recognizing the fact that they oil their hardwood with WD-40.
At that point, the only thing that could possibly make me feel better was french fries – and they did.
Next time I’ll wear my fabulous rubber shoes with velcro straps, just to be safe.
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