One time, I was a human bobsled.
Picture it. Cannon House Office Building. 2004. It looks like this. Or one door of it does.
It was built in 1908. Those marble steps were built then too. The steps are worn thin in the middle, like someone had spent 96 years buffing bowls in them, and they are slick as shit.
Do you know where this story is going?
In August of 2004, I quit my job, which was located in this building. That same month, I was interviewing for other jobs in this same building. If memory serves, and where this incident is involved it is damn near perfect, I had interviews at 1, 2 and 4 in the afternoon, so my friend and I decided to go one block and grab some lunch. Because I had interviews that afternoon, I was wearing a favorite skirt and black sweater, and black heels. I had just swapped my heels out for flip flops to pad down to Bullfeathers to get my favorite sammich: a blackened chicken pita. Bully's had the seriously good ranch dressing.
Upon approaching the door, my friend and I notice that it is drizzling, and we mutter the same expletives regarding running around in the rain, but hungry we were and craving ranch dressing. It was only a block. I exited the door first and proceeded down the right side of the steps. No sooner had my foot left the first step bound for the second, but both my frigging feet shot out from under me and I went down like I was an Olympian on the luge. It looked like this
but without the appropriate equipment and attire and snow.
People were filing out the door behind me and a very young Congressman was walking in while I was sliding out. My friend behind me was shouting "Oh my God! Oh my God!"
I stopped about three steps from the bottom. My skirt was around my waist. My Spanx (but they weren't Spanx six years ago. They were just really high, really tight underwear.) were all wet in the ass area. My feet were about five feet apart. I rose and stood still while my friend helped me pull down my skirt and dust the wet schmutz off my back. All straight. I step out again.
And AGAIN I bobsledded down the steps, completely off the marble and onto the concrete. One of my flip flops fell off and flew. My purse slid off my shoulder and spilled. People just walked around me. The security guard just stood in the door to witness the tragedy.
Then it started to really rain. I thought, "This is where I've arrived. I'm unemployed. On my ass. On the ground. Showing my panties to Congress and God and everyone coming off the Metro. In the rain."
A homely woman pushing a stroller along the sidewalk below felt the need to stop and comment.
"Wow, that marble must be slick." To which my friend screamed "YA THINK?!"
She helped me up again and straightened me out again and recovered all my belongings. For good measure, I decided to walk barefoot to our destination, since I had clearly lost the ability to walk in flip flops.
It was five hours before I could even tell the story. Recalling it is a mix of awe and humiliation. I did not get a job in that building, but they have since replaced those fucking marble steps.
I remember this story with the aches of muscle memory whenever I interview for jobs. And when my friend Em, who wasn't even there but is killing herself laughing at this for the 1,372nd time in our friendship, reminds me of it.
I also split my pants at the White House once.
....
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