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My hips don't lie, but my poker face sucks
Published: 11/9/2011 8:00 AM
Last Modified: 11/8/2011 6:01 PM


Hopefully, Shakira's non-lying hips didn't hurt like mine did when she hit the ground to pose by her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in L.A. on Tuesday. (AP Photo/Damian Dovarganes)


Just in case you didn't get the visual I was describing earlier re: my pain poker face.

If hips don't lie, Shakira, my right one's been screaming truths at me all dang day.

It seems I'm clumsy -- not a total shock, I'm sure, if you've met me at least twice or were in the lobby of that Bank of America back in 1998 when I tried to walk through a plate-glass window. Probably wouldn't have been so bad had I not done a princess wave afterward to the bank tellers.

Anyway, so here's how my day started: early -- as in "-er" than usual. Instead of wallowing in laziness, I hopped up and -- I still can't believe this -- baked five chicken breasts, made pasta salad and cooked a whole pound of lentils so I could have lunch for the rest of the week. I tell ya, I felt one hairnet and some kissed grits away from being Flo on "Alice."

The day was going very well. I even shaved! It was going to be a fabulous day.

Why, I even had time to drop some stuff off at Phoenix Cleaners, after which I sauntered next door to the Super Eleven for a bottle of water. Paid the man, bid him good day and clomped back to my car -- and I almost made it.

Long story short, my right foot flew out from under me, I slammed my left knee onto the ground and my right hip/general posterior played pestle opposite the asphalt's Oscar-worthy role of mortar.

My first thought, as I quickly took a pain inventory and wondered if I might have shattered my hip, was that I wasn't wearing a great pair of underwear today. What if they had to cut my jeans off at the hospital? I was mortified -- halfway in the street, mind you, also wondering if someone might run over my leg and render it even more useless than it was at that moment.

Now, I haven't cried since Youngun's funeral last summer, but I would've placed money right then on my sobbing. For a couple of minutes, I just sat there, wondering if the pain would subside enough so that my peripheral vision would return and the sudden nausea would pass. And I totally would have cried, had Mr. Super Eleven not come out to check on me.

I smiled and tried laughing, like it was some kind of joke. He just kept staring at me, either out of concern for my welfare or for his own, as I probably looked less sane than usual -- eyes wide and teary with a fake Joker-like smile, panting in pain. I probably looked like one of those crazy-faced people in Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun" video.

Per Mr. S'Eleven's advice, I hobbled around a little bit, then drove home to change -- until I remembered I had no clean pants or jeans. So I turned around and made it to Target, trying to walk "normal" (like I've ever done that) to the men's department. I needed something quick, so I went to the first row of denim I saw. Naturally, it was maternity jeans, and some guy walked by me, staring.

"'Sup?" I said with a quick gangsta nod. He just kept walking.

Love me some Target, but they were running a little low on the fat-boy sizes. It was nothing but skinny jeans and slim-fit options as far as the peripherally-challenged eye could see. I considered asking a passing sales clerk if a bottle of liquid latex would be cheaper for me, but I found THE ONLY pair of boot-cut jeans in my size, extricated myself out of my torn ones and walked to the cash register like I had a peg leg.

"Ahoy!" I bid the cashier (not really). I plopped my now defunct denim on the counter and said, "I had an accident, and these are my jeans, and I'm wearing the ones I need to buy. So ... Yeah."

This is when I realize I had ripped off the wrong tag for her to scan. The one she needed was tacked on to the back, slightly hidden under my fat roll. Fabulous.

By this point in the morning, having been eyed suspiciously by half a dozen Target shoppers because I was mumbling to myself and/or peg-legging around in dirty jeans, I suddenly abandoned decorum, pulled up my shirt, flashed the old lady in line behind me and tugged at the tag until it ripped off. I'm fairly certain I heard the old lady harrumph at me. I didn't care. All I wanted was to get to the office and mainline some Ibuprofen.

Ya know, though, that was the quickest check-out I've ever had at Target. Thank you, Target!

And thank you, God, that I didn't break something, other than my stupid pride -- and, perhaps, my budget for the week on a pair of emergency jeans.

Peace, love and hips ahoy ... XOXO

Today's non sequitur: So what do we think about
this whole Herman Cain brouhaha? Think he's telling the truth when he's denying all the sexual harassment accusations? Or do we care? If you're so inclined, let me know what you think.


Reader Comments 4 Total
Razor1911 (last year)
Re: Herman Cain. The guy has always seemed skeevy to me so I tend to believe that *something* untoward happened. There are too many coming forward; where there's smoke, there's fire. Why was there a settlement if nothing happened?
220668 (last year)
Sorry for your misfortune. Hope you're hobbling around better each day.

Sarina
sockmonkeys (last year)
sorry about the tumble. took a fall this summer myself, fortunately in my own bathroom-no grace involved. hope you do well. if you can take aspirin, use bayer back and body. great stuff better than hydrocodone. as far as cain goes; I think all of the republican candidates are snake oil salesman with the exception of Bachman who suffers from terminal idiocy.
futureview (last year)
Skeevy describes Cain's behavior quite nicely.

Jason, did you go get checked out to make sure you didn't break anything...oh, except your stupid pride....you have got to stop sporting those platforms shoes...!

Love you!
Double DD
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Living Wright

While other kids were watching "The Smurfs," Scene Writer Jason Ashley Wright was tuned in to "Style with Elsa Klensch." By fourth grade, he knew he wanted to write, and spent almost three years publishing a weekly teen-oriented magazine, Teen-Zine -- circulation: 2. After earning a degree in journalism from the University of Southern Mississippi, he became the medical reporter and teen board coordinator for the Hattiesburg (Miss.) American, a Gannett newspaper. Eight months later, with visions of Elsa dancing in his head, he applied for the fashion writer position at the Tulsa World, where he began working on Aug. 3, 1998. He is now a general assignment reporter for Scene.

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