I fell down the stairs today, at work. I was mincing down the stairs in my ridiculous shoes--with high wedge heels that make me look like I had foot binding done (they are, I am sorry to say, by J. Lo)--I always mince on the stairs because well otherwise I will fall. BAM, the stairs went flat like I was in a fun house.
I went down the whole flight, pretending that none of it was happening to me. I didn't scream or make any noise. And when I looked up everyone the next floor up was standing at the edge of the stairs staring at me. Nobody said anything.
It's weird when something like that happens to me, oh and they happen a LOT, my urge is to keep quite. To ignore the situation. If no one sees it it isn't real. So I got up and smiled at that crowd of people and practically sprinted back to my cube. I don't know how I got to be the kind of person who doesn't want anyone to watch her fall--or check to make sure she is alright. I wish I was a screamer, the kind of woman who beats off an attacker with a heavy pocketbook while tweeting her police whistle. Instead I would probably apologetically hand him my handbag and then look around embarrassed.
On the bus on the way home another rider admired the shoes. So there is that.