Falling. A lot.

So, I fell last night. Bang on my left knee. In public.

I was walking to meet a friend and I just went whooshhh, the biggest slip of my life (and there have been many).

You could say I just glided along the pavement. A graceful glide that concluded with an unpleasant bump. You might even say the damp weather conditions had something to do with it.

I say it’s the fact that I just seem to fall. A lot.

Up stairs.

Down stairs.

Getting into my car.

Getting out of my car.

In high heels.

In flat shoes.

I bump into corners.

I always whack my hands on things, accidentally of course.

I send glasses flying at cafés with one intense hand gesture.

I trip.

I stumble.

My elbows are weapons of mass destruction, especially in department stores.

If there is a gust of wind, my skirt is always the first one to fly up. Always.

I even, and this is the worst part, spill food on my clothes. Sometimes even drinks.

I spill. I overturn. I splash. Down the front of my dress. On the crease of my skirt. On the sleeve of my shirt.

I am the woman who breaks the heel off her shoes, by getting stuck in a hole on the road, or a gap in between some decking. It has happened three times. How? Simply by walking. Simply by stepping.

I am fine with it. I mean, despite the embarrassment from time to time. Despite the public horror. And the occasional physical pain.

It’s funny, because these accidents always happen at times when I’m feeling really great. Really swish. Really important.

Like when I’m walking down Collins Street, having just purchased something of the material and pretty kind, wearing a great outfit, thinking I am freakin’ cool and bang - the strap on my tan heel breaks and I end up a** over t**. My purchases and the bags that house them have acted as somewhat of a buffer between the concrete and me more times than I care to tally up.

Or, when I am eating at a posh restaurant with posh colleagues and I’ve just made a great addition to conversation, and I’m thinking ‘hmm, I’m clever’ and splosh - flounder and pommes frittes dribbles down my lovely dress. Oh well, at least it matches the Jacquesson Grand Cru I accidentally sprinkled down there before.

I fear that it/I won’t change. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, these things just happen. There’s no real drama in it, except of course having to always expect the unexpected. That’s why I find it so hard carrying small handbags; where do all the bandaids and pantyhose and wipes and tissues and pins and cotton and spare shoes go?

I wish I were like you regular folk. Such small, pretty clutches you get to parade. I will always be in envy of women carrying small handbags. To me, they are the symbol of having everything sorted. Of having everything in order. Women who never trip up. Fall down. Splish, splash or splosh.

So, if you ever need to find me in public it won’t be terribly hard; I will be the gal drying her skirt under a bathroom hand dryer, hobbling on one heel, having just caught my hair in my handbag buckle, with a scratch on my knee and a swollen elbow.

You won’t miss me.