I have the gracefulness of a two-legged donkey. I blame this on the fact that I was born two months early and cross-eyed. They correlate. My eyes and limbs beseeched essential belly time. But I was born with the primordial hand-eye coordination of a baby having only resided for seven months in amniotic fluid. Thus, my cross-eyed ungainly self.
Having squandered the day in Camana, Peru scrutinizing porn-blocked computers, my bus blared its horn as I strolled up the street to the hostal. I felt as lucky as Michael Jackson with his jail evasions that my hostal was adjacent to the bus departure. I flashed as fast as my pastry-satiated self allowed (Peruvian weakness: Panaterias) to my hostal, hurdled up the twenty-something steep steps feeling as mobile as Rosie O´Donnell, and pealed in to the metal gate at the top. When one of the woman workers gaped open the door to see me with my hands on knees and sweat-sated face, I clattered, ¨Bus! bus!¨ in what I deemed a quasi-coherent Spanish accent, my arms disporting like a fifth-rate magician. I dashed in, grappled with my backpackers pack, slung it over my shoulders, grasped my Nike backpack, and launched myself out the door as my bus uttered a prolonged honk.
In my self-induced-rocket-launch I had disregarded the facts that, 1: the stairs were not only steep, but narrow, and 2: I was attired in beach outfit, aka a short orange tube-top dress and sandals bereaved of traction for the past four years.
I dashed on to the stairs propelled by the bus horn.
My feet summarily slipped and I skid down those twenty-something steps, my monstrous backpackers pack padding my back. I death-gripped the Nike bag to my chest and shrieked like a disabled banshee. The backpacker rapidly whacked every step, jolting my descent and fragmenting my superfluous shrieks.
I toppled amid Peruvian masses mobbing the sidewalk and tossing food from the ground through windows to bus passengers with soles (dinero) swaying from their hands.
I landed sidewalk-sitting, my legs lolling in front of me like Gumby and my Nike backpack straddling two stairs behind me. Both the bottom and top of my dress hugged my waist, my naked tiny titties trotting and my underwear exposed.
I mentally catapulted a thank-you to My Alcohol God for transmitting my drunken dogma to my life´s core: never wear thongs. I inebriatedly declared this when I was seventeen and fell off a counter while clad in dress and thong. I have lived by the doctrine since.
I trucked my dress top up, the bottom down, and twirled around like a turtle on its back until able to maneuver myself to my feet. I flounced to the man by the bus door and produced my ticket with a flourish. He informed me in Español that my bus was late and wouldn´t arrive for another half hour.
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