In elementary school, we annually ‘performed’ the Stations of the Cross. This was a series of silent pictures, if you will. my job was to walk up three stairs, bend down on one knee, and point my finger at the kid who played Jesus. I was Judas. While wearing a makeshift toga that had also doubled as a Halloween costume, I made my way in front of the congregation of parishioners and parents. I made it up one step, tripped, and the safety pin ripped half of my toga off.
In high school, I fetched myself a pair of those ‘hooker boots’ when I was a freshman. I know, not the classiest moves I’ve ever made, but they were a fashion statement and Target had them at my price point. Target also had them minus any traction and slick as a whistle. So as I cruised down the ‘junior locker aisle’ with my brand new yellow L.L. Bean side bag, leopard skirt, and black knee-high boots, it’s no surprise that I landed with my skirt stretched to the nines and my face nearly in the pants of a gentleman I never had a shot with thereafter.
In my later years of high school, we had passing periods of only ten minutes. This time was supposed to be utilized for using the restroom, getting books, etc. I always wound up running around like crazy and barely making it into class before the bell rang. One one morning, I was walking up a set of stairs to get me to the second story and tripped up the steps. One of our largest football stars happened to be right in front of me, and I used both hands to steady myself in a jerk-reaction by grabbing each butt cheek and hanging on. I guess I was shocked by my behavior, because I lingered in that position long enough for the gentleman to turn around and stare at me. After waiting a good fifteen seconds after a normal window of time for explanation, I yelled up the stairs ‘I’m sorry for grabbing your butt!’