Aselin

I have always had a disconnect between the mental vision I have of myself and reality. In my head, I believe I'm a floating twirling suburban Disney princess skipping through life with my feet barely touching the ground. The reality is much different.

Years ago, circumstances unfolded that found me as a contestant in a local beauty pageant. (DO NOT LAUGH!) During rehearsals for the show I thought I was a carbon copy of Miss America herself as we went through the dance routines, different line up patterns and the evening gown parade. After a particularly long practice, the choreographer excused the troupe and then hissed "Except YOU!" Pointing at me. Immediately my fingertips went to my chest as my eyebrows raised and I looked over my shoulder. "Me?" I mouthed. He didn't flinch, just remained pointing a vengeful bony finger at me - now the only person left in the room.

He proceeded to express outrage that I was wrecking his whole show. That if I didn't learn how to keep up, particularly how to walk, then he would have to design a back row. A back row of one.

So I practiced, learned, practiced, had nightmares, practiced until finally, a week or so later, he deemed me "Proficient. Not good, proficient." Hey, I can live with proficient.

The night of the show I did great. I've seen the video, I didn't stand out at all. I was in my spot, I was on beat, I did just great. Until the evening gown portion.

Linked arm in arm (thank goodness) with the military escort who would set me adrift in my floating cloud of princessness we ascended the four steps to mount the stage. Smiling out at the audience, like any good princess, I mentally coached myself. "Step, and glide....step and glide... I was fine until the last step when it went something more like, "Step and grunt, and tip into military guy and stumble onto the stage trailing the tulle petticoat your last step had ripped from the inside of your gown."

It was an entrance worthy of a "Ta daaaaaa". I actually saw the choreographer in the back with his head in his hands.

Fast forward to last week. I'm still mentally coaching myself as I try and glide through my day. Unloading groceries from my car I have this whole mental dialogue going on about how many bags I can carry, how strong I am how graceful.... OOOF!

Holding umpteen full grocery bags my feet fly out from underneath me, I sail up into the air and land with a resounding thud squarely on my back. If this wasn't insult enough, it knocked the wind out of me so badly I was unable to respond to the glass pickle jar soaring in slow motion through the air. Soaring, soaring, soaring, dropping, dropping, and fortunately missing me just to the left where it hit the ground shattering in a kabillion shards of glass and pickle.

Laying completely incapacitated in a pool of kosher dill shame, it took me a good fifteen minutes to gather the strength to extricate myself from the pile of groceries, glass and gherkins. Leaving the mess, I crawled into the house. Greeted by the dog who got one whiff of me and ran in the other direction.

It just takes a special kind of grace to fall with style like that.