Oh, once again how to choose, how to choose… Even leaving out the multitude of painfully shame-filled moments involving drunken escapades, bodily functions or ex-husbands, there’s still plenty. The time I was in Mexico and the hotel clerk asked me in English for my credit card and I responded with ‘no habla espanol’.. twice… (Rasa had to step in and save me on that one) Or the time I called a cat owner by her cat’s name (to be fair I had spent more time with the cat than her).
After a quick poll, I’ve decided to go with this oldie-but-a-goodie, from my Mexico trip when Paul and Rasa tied the knot at Chichen Itza.
It was a beautiful vacation, hanging out with my friends was wonderful and witnessing their wedding was one of the highlights of my life. We drank out of fruit, we ate delicious gazpacho, we went to the ruins, the gorgeous, spectacular ruins.
At the end of my trip, Paul and Rasa drove me to the airport and I was heading up the escalators thinking about how lucky I had been, to not be clumsy at all during the entire time, I didn’t fall down, or trip or anything and I was not wearing good shoes!
Daydreaming, I tripped stepping off the escalator into the small waiting room for departures from Merida. I fell like a ton of bricks and threw my arms out in front of me, my bags on one arm flying off to the left and my suitcase flying off to the right as I flew off the top of the elevator like Super-girl. In a panic and grabbing instinctively to cushion my fall I latched onto the rear end of the woman in front of me. A buxom, rotund older woman whose upper half whipped around to stare shocked at a bizarre Canadian woman grabbing her ass and shouting “gracias gracias” over and over again, which was the only thing I could remember amidst the sensation of my knees slamming into the floor the gasp of the collective waiting room and the woman herself.
An eternal moment of embarrassment later, she scurried away and I shamefully limped about the waiting room collecting my things and moaning from time to time about the state of my scraped and bruised knees. The stares eventually subsided. When I got home, my husband at the time took one look at my wrecked knees and quipped, “I thought I said no pool boys!”