It was a brilliant, flawless Sabbath day in the small town of Rexburg, Idaho. Not a trace of the usual high speed winds were detected and I was feeling high-spirited. This diva had been asked to sing in church that afternoon, and clearly, I was more than ready. Spending more than enough time selecting the perfect outfit, (light blue high waist-ed pencil skirt with lace top accompanied with numerous gold necklaces and off-white peep-toe wedges) I only had a few more warm-up rounds to do before I could go. I look at the clock, and of course I’m late. My roommates have all gone, so I grab my bag, throw my scriptures inside, take another glance in the mirror, make the diva-pouty face, and race down the hall, well, as fast as I can in those monstrous shoes. I launch open the door, take the first step of the long, concrete staircase, and the next 5 minutes of my life progress in absolute slow motion. After my second stride, the back of my shoe clings onto the stone-step, and my body is propelled face forward down the slope of torment. I hear an opera-like wail escape my voice box and I feel my legs bashing against the concrete, flailing around uncontrollably. Trying to stop this downward progression with the palms of my hands, they only become battered and scraped. The brilliant idea of grabbing onto the side-rail before my fall never crossed my mind, and I lay wilted at the bottom of the stairs like a spider that’s been saturated in hairspray because its killer was too afraid to smash it with a tissue. After a few minutes, I regain my composure, look around, and there isn’t one soul who witnessed this monumental plunge. I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or cheated that no one saw, because now I wouldn’t have anyone to laugh with the next day. It’s interesting how one can feel that red-cheeked rush of embarrassment, even when nobody is around. I kicked off those wretched heels, ditched my bag, and limped up to my apartment. I remember laying on my bed unnaturally stiff, repeatedly saying the word “ow”. I still had another hour before my musical number, and every diva knows that the show must go on. After putting princess band-aids on my various gashes, I walked barefoot to my car and got myself to church. Sitting through Sunday School was uncomfortable because of my wounds, and apprehensive because of my performance. The time came where I managed to get myself to the chapel, and when this diva is asked to do one thing, she’s asked to do it all. I had to play the organ that day. After the opening song, I look down and see a second knee protruding out of my upper shin.
As you can see, the lower hump is not my knee. I glance down the pews and see over ten people unabashedly staring at my new friend. I couldn’t help but laugh at this unnatural sight.
I sang my song and booked it out of the chapel. I even forewent my obligation of playing the closing hymn, figuring someone else could cover for me. All I knew was that I needed to get to Community Care, and boyfriend was taking me. After x-rays and blood pressure checks, the idiots just told me that it was a big bruise and I needed to ice it. Well, it was worth a check.
Over the next two weeks, I made sure that I wore shorts and skirts so that I could show off my battle wounds. I failed to make up a more commendable story, and when people heard that I “fell down the stairs”, they chuckled and didn’t take me seriously. On the other hand, and to Cameron’s dismay, many first impressions entailed of me being in an abusive relationship. Them: “Oh my gosh! What happened to your leg?” Me: “Oh, I just fell down the stairs. It’s no big deal.” Them: “You mean Cameron pushed you down the stairs? Do you need counseling?” Me: “WHAT THE HECK? BE NICE!”
In all seriousness, divas cannot be perfect all of the time. Accidents happen, composure is revoked, and egos (and legs) are bruised. Don’t let one fall determine your perception of a person.