These Boots Were Made for Walkin'

Until recently, my first and only pair of cowboy boots were a gift from my parents in fourth or fifth grade. They were black. They were authentic. I was ahead of my time...

I thought I was looking good in my black cowboy boots and stirrup pants when I headed to the bus stop that morning. I looked so good that I was running late and I watched the bus pull away from my stop as I walked down the hill.

No worries, the bus rounded the corner and I knew it would make two more stops before circling back to Park Ave. I picked up the pace and went from a gallop to a trot to get to the other bus stop. I failed to consider that the sidewalk might be a bit slick. It was the dead of winter in Iowa, the black ice state. 

It was the kind of slip and fall where everyone goes, OOOOHH! You don't even laugh. You know bones were broken. Specifically, my tail bone. 

I looked too good to cry. So I picked myself up and got on that bus. The bus driver asked me to sit down. But I told her I couldn't. She saw me fall and was nice enough to let me surf all the way to school. 

I never even made it to class. I walked in the front doors of the school and straight to the nurse's office. They called dad, he picked me up and took me home. His famous words were, "If you're going to be home all day you might as well fold this basket of towels."

It took 20 years to work up the courage to buy a new pair of boots. I won't wear them if there's even a hint of frost. Another blow like that and my tail bone might break off completely. God knows my ass can't get any flatter. 

Roll On

I had to drive about an hour and a half for a manicure appointment today. It's rare that I take any time for myself so I decided to be super basic and strut into my nail appointment with a jumbo Starbucks latte. 

Instead, I barged in late to my nail appointment with a bladder on the verge of exploding. I whipped into the first empty parking spot I found and flew through the door of the Medical Spa and Day Salon asking for a bathroom like they were a gas station.

After a pee like Tom Hanks on A League of Their Own, I sat to get my nails done. It was lovely (but totally not worth 90 minutes of holding in my coffee to get there). As I stepped out of the salon here's how my thoughts unfolded...

Hey, that looks just like my car. 

But I parked on the other side of the lot.

Where's my car?

Wait, that is my car.

Why is it on the sidewalk?

Oh shit!

Did it hit that pole?

OH SHIT!

That's right! My car rolled across the parking lot, hopped the curb, hit a pole and sat on the sidewalk while I got my nails done. That pole was the only thing that kept my car from rolling through the front door of a doctor's office. 

I stood there with my mouth hanging open for God knows how long. Once all the pieces came together I was too embarrassed to even check for damage. Other than the pole. That damage was rather obvious. 

I got in, drove right off that curb and never looked back. I couldn't believe I did that. My car developed a new feature in her old age. You can take the keys out without putting the car in park. Isn't that convenient? I'm blaming my bladder for the whole incident. Honestly, no human can think clearly when their eyeballs are floating. I'm surprised I even remembered to take the keys out.