Girls have an affinity for buying clothes that aren’t comfortable, but they look good so, like, who cares? So I spent $150 for the jeans I can’t sit down in without looking like I’m mid-fart or $250 for those flats that cut so deep into my heels that I leave a trail of blood so I can find my way home from the bar later, it’s whatever. Pain is beauty.
It was a cloudless day in Boston, a trend that I’m totally on board with, and after numerous research studies, I’ve concluded there is a strong correlation between good weather and blowing my money on absurdities: headbands I won’t wear because they give me a 5-head, heels that collect dust because only newbies wear heels in the city or those pair of blue ribbed leggings. Just, no. This time ’round I surprised myself with a dress; both practical and appropriate, and on sale – a rare breed. Usually the only things I see on sale are the “call me, I’m easy” or “you want a piece of this?” with a slice of cake on the front t-shirts.
So it was another great day, blah blah blah reading at a cafe blah, strolling up and down Newbury St. blah blah venti Starbucks blah. My dress was lined at the bottom, restricting my stride, something I failed to notice until after the receipt said all sales, FINAL. These gams of mine are like lionesses and they do NOT like confined spaces.
Throughout the course of the day, I adjusted my walk to a shorter stride that looked sadder than a cat wearing booties but still managed to buy something I can’t afford, only to further prove my hypothesis.
Tired from the extra walking milage I put in, I caught the campus bus that conveniently drops my off in front of my apartment. Unladylike, I hang my shopping bag around my neck and my purse across my body, hike up my floor-length dress and prepare for the 2-foot drop. We have contact, ladies and gentleman. I destrangle myself and re-channel my inner Rodeo Drive diva.
Not thinking about my acute stride impairment, I climb the three iPad-steep stairs to get into my building.
Slow motion is used for two categories: hot girls running on the beach and epic falls.
Far from sand and water, my slow-mo sequence commenced the second my foot attempted the first stair. No it’s fine, with the aid of my sunglasses, the concrete broke my fall. Seriously, I’m fine with falling. That kind of embarrassment is childs play – got past that at the ripe age of 7. I couldn’t fucking get up. Do I LOOK like I just wanna chill on my face next to my purse that just vomited its contents?
No, that stupid seam wouldn’t let me bend my knee past my ankle, forcing me to accelerate my body backwards hard enough to land cat-like on my heels but not hard enough to humpty dumpty on my ass. I shove my fallen goods into my purse with scraped hands and knees and geisha shuffle in the lobby bathroom to collect myself.
Aviators askew and a dab of blood on my chin, I’m like Brad Pitt right after a gruesome scene from Fight Club. Yes, at least 3 bakers’ dozens of students and bus drivers saw me eat concrete but aren’t we forgetting the most important thing? The unnecessary dress I bought on sale went unscathed! That’s what I call an unanticipated money well spent.
I walk in the lobby looking for my ID amongst the clutter of shit I fast balled back in my purse when the Bahamian security guard, Matron, doesn’t miss a beat: “Just go.”