losing face in formalwear

it was december 2004. i was in a hotel room with friends, getting ready for a best friend's wedding (sans dermot mulroney). i loved the gown i had to wear that day -- it had a heavy, flowing, dried-blood-red skirt (note to self: rethink the use of "flowing" and "blood" in same adjective chain) with enough cloth to make three smaller dresses. i wore my (very) high-heeled slip-ons and marched out the door.

i had to go down a flight of stairs to get to the lobby, which was then occupied by a considerable number of hotel guests and staff. as someone who has dealt with many other flights of stairs in many other high-heeled slip-ons (but, admittedly, not many floor-length skirts), i felt quite confident with each step, making sure that the big-top tent (aka gown) was clearly out of the way. truth be told, i slightly enjoyed the fact that the lobby people were looking at us, the entourage, as we inched our way down.

the problem with graceful, accident-free events is that they are practically fiction. give me an inch of confidence, i'll give you a light-year of disaster.

true to form, as i was taking my third to the last step, my right shoe -- obviously pissed that we were running late but still moving in slow motion -- flew out from under the gown and landed squarely on the lobby floor.

in retrospect, i should've followed suit and leaped to my death of humiliation (although the parachute aka gown would've probably saved me). in reality, i merely let out a signature belly laugh, avoided eye contact with my amused audience, and hobbled the rest of the way down to where the cursed slip-on awaited.

next time (and let there be no "next time"), i should just leave the evil shoe. it worked for cinderella, i hear.