Getting down on the dance floor
Time slowed to a crawl as I felt the inevitable force of gravity take over. Yes, it happened. While enthusiastically cutting the rug on the dance floor at our holiday office party last Friday night, I slipped and fell – and spectacularly, I might add. In one of the most humiliating events I can imagine (right up there with unknowingly exposing otherwise private body parts in public) I fell victim to what happens when enthusiastic dancing, a long dress and a pair of cowboy boots meet. We newspaper people know how to have a good time. You’d be surprised. Our work is intense – fast-paced, unrelenting, always on deadline. But give us a chance to let loose a little, and we’re downright fun. That’s the way it was this year at the Roxie nightclub in downtown Glenwood. After a good hour or so of appetizers, drinks and conversation – amounting to yelling at each other over disco music – the DJ cranked up the tunes even more and many of us took to the floor to get down and get funky. My fall from grace occurred well into the evening, but had nothing to do with drinking too much (which would clearly have made it more humiliating, if that’s even possible). We were at the party for about four hours, and during that time I only had a glass and a half of wine. No, the fall was purely my own doing. Some of it probably had to do with dressing up. I was wearing a long velvet dress (Hey, in my line of work, I don’t get opportunities to wear fancy stuff so I take advantage of it when I can). The problem began when I stepped back onto my dress, immediately creating a slippery slope between the cloth and the floor. Worse yet, I simultaneously felt my left leg whack into a rise in the floor next to me. I was going down. In the scope of world events, my fall is less than insignificant. But for me, as I felt myself lose balance and my feet lose contact with the floor, I felt the heat of a thousand spotlights honing in on my every desperate move to remain upright. It took years to hit the ground. It didn’t help that a threesome of husbands married to a few girlfriends from the classified ad department happened to be sitting right smack next to the dance floor where I lay. Of course, they were gentlemanly and immediately got up to help me and to see that I was all right (not!). No, instinct kicked in, and instead, they got a big hoot out of my slip-up. I could hear their peals of laughter, even over the decibel-shattering disco beat. Mortifying! I got up as quickly as I could, joining in the laughter (what do you do?!), and checked the body for damage. My left shin was bleeding, but compared to my embarrassment, it was nothing. So, why write about this for all to see, and to document it for anyone who happened to miss it? For one, everybody on earth has an experience (or many!) similar to mine, and two, misery loves company (or at least appreciates some empathy). Besides, it’s helping me to realize that plenty of activities involve falling. Look at football players. They fall down practically every play! Skiing can involve falling, and so can boarding. I admit that I’ve been known to be accident-prone (a term I refuse to acknowledge; either you’re out playing the game of life or you’re not, and if you are, sometimes, you’re going hit the dirt). At the same time, I’ll admit I have a closet of helmets: one for skiing, one for bicycling, one for riding horses, one for kayaking. Maybe I should wear a helmet during the day, in my car, walking down the street, in the office. You never know when gravity just might take you down. Carrie Click is editor of The Citizen Telegram in Rifle, and is contemplating purchasing a disco-dancing helmet. Carrie can be reached at 625-3245, ext. 101, email@example.com.
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After opposing Proposition 114, the 2020 wolf reintroduction initiative that passed by a whopping 1%, I had reservations about dressing down another budding ballot measure.