I am accident-prone. People tend to find this fact surprising about me (people who haven’t known me long), but I am also more or less the indestructible woman. Once, I fell down two flights of stairs, landing directly on my neck. Sure, I dislocated my shoulder but it could have been much worse. Much worse. Yet people still act shocked when I say that I am utterly, completely without the necessary elegance it takes to, say, walk.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself tumbling down subway stairs this weekend with another Sad Sigher (I tumbled; he watched in horror). Nor was I surprised when the only bruising I ended up with was where the man with a cane had tried to helped me up, and inadvertently left bruised fingerprints on my upper arm. I fell down, but then I got right back up and limped with my broken shoe back to the apartment. This is par for the course. I didn’t think anything of it.
Unfortunately, it was the harbinger of further bad luck. Upon exiting the subway the following day (having boarded at an above-ground station where the sun was shining brightly), I stepped out to see a purple-looking sky, warning of a storm. “No matter,” I thought, trudging forward with two suitcases, “I only have three blocks to walk to get to where I’m going.” As if on cue I felt a raindrop. Then another. Thunder crack. Louder thunder crack. And suddenly, rain the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my last visit to Florida during hurricane season starts pelting me and everything I own.
(Keep in mind that I am wearing 99 cent store flip flops I had purchased to replace the shoes I broke falling down the subway stairs).
“Only three blocks,” I say to myself, sliding precariously on my own shoes as I step into a massive puddle. “Only three blocks!”
Well, normally only three blocks. That day? Six extra blocks thanks to those wily gays, who were having a parade down 5th avenue. Sure, I got to see wet, naked, hairless men marching down the street on the Nair for Men float (mmmm…so smooth!), but the price I paid was arriving at my destination soaked completely through – down to my underwear.
Which itself presented a new problem.
I was on a little vacation for the weekend, and, only needing two days worth of outfits, I had only brought one bra.
So here’s where the Sad. Sigh. comes in. Picture this: Me, in a robe, sitting in a freezing hotel room drying my own damn bra with a hairdryer and later, putting a shirt on over the still-damp bra and ending up with circles of dampness around my boobs. No, that’s not sweat. No, I’m NOT nursing! Just a little rain, is all.
