Head Over Heels

Well, it finally happened. After more than three years of living in New York, I took a tumble on a busy public street. I was crossing Broadway in Soho and came across the 'black ice.' It wasn't near the curb or helpfully marked by police tape and cones. Oh no. It was just there, lying in wait for the toe of my sleek over the knee boot to strike. Then ass over teakettle I flew, bags flying, arms flailing. Flat. On. My. Back. I was a piece of performance art, my shopping bags artfully arranged around my flaccid form like flower petals.

And oh was there a large audience for my performance! Tourists in leather pants, their tiny guidebooks their talisman. Tightly coifed ladies in mink coats. Gum smackers from New Jersey. Covens of stroller moms. But it was a man with a crutch who helped me up. Yes, it took a handicapped person to alight me from the ground. The irony burned.

I walked away with a sore wrist, a bruised butt, and a major case of embarrassment. But it wasn't as bad as the travails suffered by the West Side Beauty. It's supposed to snow again this week. Let's hope we can both keep our feet on the ground!