Pride Goeth...

It was a hot, sunny summer day and I had put on a dress. It's one of my favorites: two floaty ankle-length layers, a discrete floral print on a pale blue background, and a cut that emphasizes my best features. I put on a pair of sandals for the walk to the Metro and left the house feeling like a summer morning.

A couple of stops before the office, my spidey-sense tingled. The young hottie across the aisle from me was checking me out. He noticed me noticing him and smiled, a lovely picture. He spent the remaining minutes of the train ride flirting with me and I, rapidly approaching the age where young men don't necessarily check you out anymore, was feeling fine. My hair was cute, my dress was lovely, I was definitely flirt-worthy. And this young man, who likely had just finished his degree at Georgetown or AU, was classically handsome.

He got off at the same stop and followed me (and the rest of the morning crowd) up from the platform and through the stiles onto the escalators. The escalators in this particular station are especially steep and long. I usually walk up them in the morning, and if I make it all the way to the top without stopping to catch my breath, it makes me feel strong and invincible. I could feel his eyes following me as I took my first steps up the escalator, and I was feeling like I was all that and a bag of chips.

Then I fell flat on my face, directly in front of him.

I felt like a Grade-A Idiot. Serves me right, I suppose, letting this guy flirt with me and all. He gasped, "Are you okay?", but by that point, I had grabbed the handrail and dragged myself upright again. I blurted out something about the only wounds being to my ego and sprinted away up the escalators, anything to get away. By the time I got to the elevator lobby in the building, though, I was snickering at my own stupidity.

My foot was a little scratched up. My ego, however, was in intensive care for a couple of days.