We've been playing the most ridiculous game of phone tag for weeks, occasionally connecting long enough to ask if one or the other of us can call back the next day. It works for me because I hate the telephone, and even though you're one of the very few that I can stand to speak to on it for more than thirty seconds, I still would really rather not.
Gravity and I are often at odds, and today was no exception. I could blame this afternoon's pavement body slam on the kitten heels I was wearing, but since I'm equally as stumblefooted in flats, it isn't really an excuse. The end result is that I sprawled on the ground like a big-headed nine year old, complete with skinned hands and knees and, somehow, the tops of my toes. (Fortunately, the scraped toes are on the foot opposite from the one that had the sprained toe a few weeks ago.) The only good part is that it happened before my pedicure, so at least my feet look fabulous--I'm going to Florida next week, and I need all the help I can get.
If you are also in Florida next week, you'll be able to recognize me easily--I'll be the girl in the skirts with the bruises for kneecaps. They'll coordinate nicely with my cranky pants.
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