I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but I have an
inherent inability to leave a room gracefully. I honestly don’t know why I am
so bad at it, but whenever I think I’m in the clear I usually run into the side
of a table or can’t get the door open. Sometimes (this is a rare occurrence,
something usually goes wrong before this point) I get completely out of the
door, only to not notice the step, and fall flat on my face in front of
passer-bys outside my dorm. This has happened at least three times this
semester.
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| Is this real life? |
Today, I managed the incredible feat (hah, feet) of pulling my own chair
out from under me. Honestly, I have no idea.
One particular day last winter, I was walking to class in
heeled boots, feeling self-satisfied and generally too pulled-together for my
own good, and decided to take a shortcut down some stairs.
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| What I Expected. |
Only, half way down
I pulled a classic me and tripped on a patch of black ice. The action of me
falling down the stairs, in front of a huge line pre-meds trying to get into
their organic chemistry lecture, can only be described as herping the derp .
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| What I got. (Well, minus the legs. Mine are not that nice.) |
Also, not one of those shits came over to see if I was okay.
I’m glad no one in that line is going to pursue a career in making people feel
better.
Oh. Wait.
Anyways, obviously I’m not really that great with hand-limb
coordination. Which brings to me the actual story:
This summer I worked as an editorial intern at a fashion
website in New York. Which is to say, I called Mary Kate and Ashley lazy hobos,
and all my co-workers got mad at me. On the street where I worked there were
enough organic food places to appease all of Portland, Oregon, and I was
getting entirely too bored with eating things that were both good for my body
and mean to my meager wallet. The golden arches of McDonalds were calling to me
in all of their cheap, greasy deliciousness, and I wanted nothing more than to
spend three dollars on questionable chicken.
 |
| Too real |
The problem was
that no one else in the office had ever brought back McDonalds. One time,
someone brought back Chinese food, and everyone glared at her for at least an
hour. But one day, something amazing happened. I walked back into the office
after lunch break and the artery-hardening aroma of French fries hit me. There
sat my boss, happily munching his McDonalds fries and burger, and that was all
the permission I needed. The next day, I practically killed some tourist on the
street to get my French fries, and self-righteously carried my prize back to
the office. When I got there, a half-naked Brazilian model named Fernando was
waiting for me.
Trust me, this does not end well.
 |
| Possibly how my face looked at this point. |
First, I dropped my McDonalds bag. Which was already
embarrassing just because of how much more I know Fernando exercises than I do
(abs people, abs). Then I leaned over to pick it up. Then, everything
imaginable fell out of my pockets. Legitimately, it was like the Neverending Story of pockets. At this point I
had two options: Sit on the floor in the midst of my broken dreams, or pull
myself together and slink away under a desk and die. Instead, I sat at my desk,
writing a snarky post about dicks (Anthony Weiner was a thing back then,
children), and trying not to cry into my French fries.
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| IN PEACE, I SAY! |
Fernando spent the next four hours in Armani underwear, a
bowtie, and glasses.
 |
| Stop that. |
