Call me what you want, but don't call me Grace

Avid watchers of Sex and the City probably remember the episode where Carrie Bradshaw participates in a fashion show and trips as she walks down the runway. It's quite a spectacular fall, actually, and I've always loved that scene. First of all, it's funny, and second, instead of slinking away, Carrie shows such grace when she decides to pick herself up and finish that show. I admire that.

I wish I could say that I had a good attitude today when I took a similar spill in the parking lot of one of the busiest grocery stores in town. I had just gotten out of the car and was walking to the store, on a mission for a gallon of skim milk and a container of Cool Whip for the strawberry shortcake I planned to make. As I walked toward the store, eyes on the traffic around me, I stepped into a hole in the pavement, turned my ankle, and started to fall. There I was, teetering in my three-inch skinny heels, arms flailing, face probably doing a lovely imitation of shock, sheer terror, embarrassment, and anger all rolled into one. I very gracefully (no, not really) took several clumsy giant steps in an attempt to keep myself from falling, my arms pinwheeling and my purse whipping around. I certainly didn't show Carrie Bradshaw's grace as, after about forty years of stumbling, I finally came to a halt, leaned against somebody's SUV, rotated my ankle a few times to check the pain level (moderate), said a word or two I shouldn't have, and then made my way to the store, head high, a look pasted on my face that said to anyone watching, "What fall? You saw nothing. Nothing."

Grace under fire? Hardly. Really, the only thing that could have been worse would have been if my name were...Grace.