I'm Such an Ass

Somehow, over the course of my life, I have become known as a frazzled, clumsy person.

It probably has something to do with having larger than average feet attached to the bottom of my legs. And the untamed nature of my locks. That is not to say I don't fall down a lot. I do. And break things. Not bones so much, as chairs and things of that nature.

Every time I find myself on the ground, or somehow awkwardly caught on a rogue tree branch, I have two thoughts, one after the other:
1) I'm such an ass. I really hope nobody saw that.
2) That was hilarious. I really hope somebody saw that.

Like most, I possess the basic human instinct to save face. And to refrain from appearing a total spaz.

However a mere retelling can never capture the rawness of my idiotic maneuvers. It never fails that I always hope some one out there got a first-hand look. (It may have something to do with that strange giddiness that comes with connecting, even briefly, to people you don't know.)

Even so, there are those rare events when a clumsy move goes unwitnessed. I usually say to myself, "I'm such an ass. Thank God no one saw that. I am never telling anyone about that."

Which lasts a whole 10 minutes.
I cannot help but divulge my own secrets, perpetuate my own stereotypes.

There is poetry in the time I got a straw stuck so far up my nose, my nose began to bleed; symmetry in walking onto Proctor Terrace with my skirt tucked into my underwear; awe in each stained blouse, simplicity in all the broken chairs and beauty in each and every wipe-out.

Are you okay?

People rarely answer this question honestly.

That doesn't bother me at all, because I'm one of those people. And to be honest, I really hate that question. Okay-ness is relative and subjective and if you actually care about a person's state, there are more productive ways to get your answer.
But today I encountered a man who was definitely not okay.

I was standing at the bus stop after leaving the law firm where I work (have you noticed how the most interesting things in my life happen at the bus stop?). The law office is in Farragut, which is a primarily business district. This is relevant, as is the fact that I left the law office at 1pm.

So, there I am standing at the bus stop at 1:04ish on a Thursday afternoon. An older man 10 feet away is hailing a taxi. He is wearing a green sweater vest over a button up shirt, light chinos, a tie, and casual dress shoes of some sort, and wearing a navy baseball cap. He is leaning on the USA Today newspaper dispenser with his arm in the air.

I instinctively thought this was weird, "Dumb guy," I thought. "Step further out into the street. No cabs can see you there." There were cars parked, not between the man and the street, but in such a way that he couldn't see approaching traffic, and it definitely couldn't see him. I guess he realized this, too, and went to move further up the road, away from the parked cars.

Next thing I know, I see something falling out of the corner of my eye, and hear smack. I look down, and two feet away from me the guy has bit it into the curb. He is a mass of crumpled clothing and gray hair. He is face down, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. I immediately run over. All I can get out is, "Sir, are you okay?" I don't know if I can get him up on my own. Two pedestrians hurry over (one man) and ask the same questions. A female cyclist with a nose ring (who I recognize from the metro on Monday night), skids to a halt to help, too. We all notice that there are drops of blood on his hands. "Are you okay, sir? Sir? Can you get up?"

He pushes himself up a bit, to sitting. He is not as old as we are expecting. "Sir, can you get up?" His face is bloodier than we are expecting. He is swaying a bit. Gasping, looking confused, saying quietly, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm okay." Somehow I have his baseball cap in my hand. He is unaware of his dripping face. His glasses have cut him somewhere under the eye and the blood is bright red on the pavement. The bleeding man grabs the hands of the cyclist, while the two pedestrians grip him under the armpits. They have quite a time hoisting him up. Once on his feet he sways quite a bit, before a passing cabby wises up and sees the chance for a fare.

We put him in the cab. I teeter after him in vain saying, "Sir, your cap. Your hat, sir," and eventually just toss it in the cab on top of his knee and shut the door.

Despite his protestations, this man was not okay. His bloody face was proof enough for me. But then, I guess it's all relative.

"In your wildest fantasy you're in Hell? And you are co-running a bed and breakfast with the devil?"

Apparently I have difficulty distinguishing between mentally handicapped and just plain drunk.

This became problematic recently when a strange man began talking to me at a bus stop. I usually avoid these kind of situations by simply using my headphones. But this particular evening I wanted to soak up the awesomeness and celebration that was everywhere on the streets of DC
He thought I looked "blue" and wanted to cheer me up. (Sidenote: I was in fact a bit blue, because it was just before midnight on November 5th, Barack Obama had just won the election, and I had spent the entire evening working my menial retail job instead of watching returns and celebrating with my friends.)
Anyway, I ignored him, thinking: "Crazy drunk man."

Then my kind and pure heart got the better of me and I thought, "Maybe he's not drunk. He's just trying to be nice. Maybe he's slow. What I thought was a drunken slur might actually be a speech impediment. He's fairly well-dressed. How harmful could he be?"

Needless to say he was just drunk. I think. And after being pressed mercilessly for information and asked for my phone number I made up the following lie.

My name is Sarah.
I go to GW. A sophomore, as it turns out.
Undeclared.
I work at a shoe store in Georgetown.

This was all "very impressive" to the slurring man.