...is that I get home too late to do a decent blog post. Of course, my social life isn't really a social life. It's more of an organization meeting life. Still, I got out the six inch heels again. I did so figuring I didn't have far to walk: I'd do valet parking at the hotel and just take the elevator to the event. Ha! The hotel parking lot was full. So I parked down the street and under a large tree. Amid the shattered remains of someone's windshield. Precarious terrain in those six inch heels. But I navigated my way to the party, stood in line for my vodka and tonic ($8.50) at the no-host bar and talked to people I didn't know. I'm good at that. I'll talk to anyone. I'm real fun in a supermarket line. But that is not the point of my story. The point of my story is that some of my new friends invited me to go to dinner with them. Sure, says I. We'll walk, says they. And walk we do--about six or seven blocks. Okay, I'm still not at the point of my story. Which is: on the way back from dinner, 'round about block five, my leg gave out and I started to list. Well, it was actually more of a stagger as I struggled to keep my balance. Fortunately, my new friends rushed to my aid, one on each side, and got me upright again. I did the rest of the walk in my bare feet--on the streets of Sacramento. And now I'm going to bed--after I wash said feet real good.
If I were twentyfive or thirtyfive, I'd just laugh it off. But at my age, I feel like an old lady that can't even stay afloat. Thus, I am going to tag this post accordingly.