Open the Gates & Seize the DoofOuchOwBumpShit

So. Okay. Let's get this hideously embarrassing story over with already. I've been putting it off for some reason, like I am laboring under the delusional illusion that I have dignity or something. 

I broke my toe a couple weeks ago, as you may or may not recall. In retrospect, it was a pretty bad break. I think it may have involved a joint in my actual FOOT, not just the toe. So probably a break that should have been checked out and/or coddled for a week or two in a cast shoe or something. Instead of what I did, which was tape it up for a couple days and limp around while insisting I was okay, then going to New York City with a suitcase full of ridiculous shoes. 

Behold! A trifecta of dumbass!

But you know. SHOES. VANITY. HUBRIS. A DESPERATE NEED TO MAKE MY CALVES LOOK SEXY. 

I knew I was in trouble on the very first night, when I "only" wore the pair of strappy wedges and realized that I was having a really hard walking in them. Not just from toe-pain (pshaw! I can medicate that right up with martinis), but from balance issues. I was very weirdly wobbly, at least for me. Was I out of practice? Overly favoring my busted left foot and screwing with my center of gravity? Drrrrrunk?

THE WORLD MAY NEVER KNOW.

So I made a point to start wearing flat sandals whenever I had to walk somewhere, and stashing my ridiculous shoes in my bag to change into once I arrived at my destination. This worked...somewhat, though I did fall flat on my ass at Sparklecorn in front of Avitable during a DRAMATIC RE-ENACTMENT of the moment when a crazy person stole Charlie's conference badge after he ordered her to stop making me cry.

And still. Lo. I did not learn. On Saturday night, we went to see Newsies. I wore my favorite shoes ever (the animal print ones, on the right), a Barbie-doll-riffic pair of platforms that have never given me an ounce of trouble, that have always been comfortable despite looking otherwise, that I have literally sprinted down escalators and across Metro platforms in. 

So of course I fell down the stairs in them. 

We were up in the mezzanine — a steep, terrifying old-school mezzanine — but oh, that part was fine! At intermission I got up to pee and realized that the line was already stretching back down the stairs to the orchestra level. I followed the herd down the stairs and...I don't totally know. I THINK I put my bad foot down on the narrow step and wobbled unexpectedly, then reached out for the railing but missed, while at the same time the crush of people behind me didn't realize I'd stopped and knocked whatever remaining shred of balance I had left.

I fell. Face first. I hit multiple steps with multiple body parts — my knees, my shins, my elbows, my shoulder, MY FACE. 

There was nothing to do but roll into it and hope that I would hit the solid floor eventually and would make it there without breaking anything. The bathroom line saw it all, and I heard the collective gasps of a good dozen people. Everyone — including an usher who saw the whole thing and rushed over — asked if I was okay, and I insisted I was, while also wishing they would all just SHUT UP SHUT UP LET ME GO ON WITH MY LIFE I ALSO STILL REALLY HAVE TO PEE.

I was the person everyone would talk about when they returned to their seats. I was Tai from Clueless, the girl who fell on her butt face, the girl who had no business wearing those stupid shoes. 

I turned down offers of ice and first aid (mostly because I HAD TO PEE AND DO YOU NOT SEE THIS LINE), took my shamey place in line, caught Jason's eye in the crowd and mouthed I JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS OMG to him, then inspected the damage in the bathroom. 

My left leg was bleeding — icky wide swaths of carpet-induced cuts — and my right leg was already bruising profusely as were both my elbows. My shoulder ached (that bruise wouldn't show up until later) and the right side of my face around my eye was red and slightly carpet-burned.

I stumbled out and told the usher I'd reconsidered the offer of some ice. They eventually brought me a plastic Duane Reade bag full of ice from the concession stand.

And so I spent the second act trying desperately to ice my various wounds while keeping the crinkly-bag-sounds to a minimum. The humiliated ache from my injured pride, however, raged on. 

(We didn't really care for the show either. Turns out I am a Newsies purist who thinks they changed too damn much from the movie and got all nit-picky about most of my favorite moments being removed. Though obviously my viewing experience may have been clouded by the STAIR-BLOW I TOOK TO MY FACE.) 

I am still sporting a bunch of impressive bruises and cuts, and a newfound ambivalence-slash-terror towards my heel collection. They are assholes and so am I. The end!