You know that old saying, 'birds of a feather, stick together?' I always found it a little narrow-minded. I mean, come on, birds, branch out (pun!), get some different friends, spice up your social life. But, in the non-bird world, it is sometimes important to match up with people a little like you. Lucky for me, I've been able to find people almost as awkward as me (almost!) to help bear the burden of near contstant embarassment. And lucky for you, some of said friends would like to share their tales. So, without further ado, allow me to introduce the first installmet of a new regular(ish) series of guest-posts. This one comes from my wonderful colleague K who is fantastic at baking, and not so hot at walking. Enjoy! Legends of the Awkward Fall:
Fellow readers of this blog are already acquainted with a special little area known as “the Spot.”* Well, as we roll into April here at the office, we come to find that many of our colleagues’ parents were getting busy right around July, because a good 20% of the department has a birthday this month. Since we’re still on refreshment austerity, it’s no surprise that around 4:45 yesterday, the email came around, requesting that someone – anyone! – bring in a baked good to celebrate. After several people responded with the excuse “I don’t have an oven,” I decided to buck up and do my part.
Fast forward to this morning, when I roll onto the subway with a glass Pyrex dish in tow. I made raspberry bars, which are delicious to eat, and a big inconvenience to carry. I spend the eight minutes on the train thinking out how hot it is, how I wish I didn’t wear a white sweater that I’ve now completely sweat through, and how I wish the pregnant woman to my left would get up so that I could sit down.
Finally, the doors open at my stop and I bust out of the train. There are four flights of stairs up to actual ground level, and I over-enthusiastically tear at them ready to conquer. Since the passengers in front of me are too slow for my indomitable speed, I opt to take the adjacent staircase, clearly meant for people who are going in the opposite direction. Big mistake. A large dude heading down is soon blocking my path, and though I try to dodge him stealthily, all Matrix-style, I instead proceed to face plant up the stairs. Awesome. The fall happens in slow motion, and I brace myself for the worst as I desperately hold onto my tray, and pray it doesn’t shatter everywhere. By a stroke of luck, it doesn’t, but that doesn’t really help the fact that I’m still flat on my face. Now everyone around me has to make a decision whether to ignore me or ask me if I’m all right, and since we’re in a stairwell, people don’t really have much of a choice, as I’m blocking the entire path. As my face begins to flush to the color of my raspberry bars, I’m thinking, “What if my underwear is showing? Worse, what if my ass crack is showing? I hope my jeans aren’t ripped like last time, why did these damn birthday people even have to be born, and maybe I should start watching ‘Glee’…everyone seems to be obsessed with it.”
So now people all around me are asking if I’m ok, and I make it even more awkward when I sit up to face them, and there’s red jelly all over my face and sweater. People gasp, and it takes me a second to realize they think I’m gushing blood. I then of course proceed to lick it away, which is even more creepy. I’m trying to explain, but no one really cares – they just want to get upstairs already. So I hurry to my feet as quick as I can, jelly-bloodied and ass-crack exposed, and make my way upstairs, but not without stumbling a little on the next step in an unfortunate aftershock, giving people every reason to think that I knocked back a pitcher of sangria for breakfast because it’s impossible to be this much of a spaz sober. Finally, I break ground, and take my walk of shame for the five long blocks to the office. Luckily, just about everyone is going the same way. Happy Birthday colleagues, and enjoy** your raspberry bars.
*No, not that spot…get your mind out of the gutter.
** Hope you choke on them.