High shoes or low shoes, flat surfaces or sloped, drunk or sober, one thing is for sure: I will fall.
I don’t know how it all began, but I do know that I have had permanently scabbed knees since the age of fifteen. It’s like the ground is my best friend and it hates to see me go. It lets me have my space for a limited amount of time, then just as I get comfortable in a vertical position, it pulls me back again, leaving wounds and scars behind to forever remind me that I am owned.
Very recently, as friends have been noticing my decreasing ability to remain balanced, I have acquired the nickname, “Knees Fogarty”
Have a guess why…
Now, I have been called things such as ‘clumsy’ and a ‘klutz’ but never, had I ever imagined in a million years that my constant imbalance would give rise to the nickname ‘Knees’.
I suppose the name ‘Knees’ really began on New Years Eve.
I had just stepped out of a pub.
I was slightly wobbly but I put that down to the mess of a friend who was hanging from my arm. The walking man turned green, signalling it was time for us to make our journey to the other side of the road. I took one step, then another, then another and finally in the middle of the road, I held my head high, proud of my achievement.
I still do not know what was the cause of my horrific fall but what I do know is that I was lying, face down on a cold street in Kilkenny. Cars, taxi’s, ‘real people’ commuters going about their days, sat in cars at either side of the pedestrian crossing, beeping horns and flashing lights. Young party go-ers, lining up at an ATM to empty their bank accounts produced phones from pockets and purses and began documenting this ‘Epic Fail’. There was laughter, and flashes and even screaming from the friend on my arm who was trying desperately to pick me up from the ground.
“Just give me three minutes” I begged her.
Three minutes, I told myself, three minutes and I will be standing again.
Before I knew it, she had me pulled to my knees and I was ready to regain my posture and whatever little pride I had left..
I noticed the contents of my bag rolling down the street.
The contents of my bag on a normal day:
- important documents
- hair slides
- 1c, 2c, 5c coins
The contents of my bag said night:
As you can imagine, on a night out, with a face like mine, mascara and eyeliner were my best friends (sorry ground). So to see them rolling down the cold street was a stab right into the heart.
Nothing else to do only..
I crawl after them.
At this stage the people in their cars are getting restless and some have even resorted to nudging the car closer and closer towards us in the hope of making me fear for my life. However, my life at that moment in time revolved around one thing and one thing only.
Thick, Black Eyelashes.
I crawled. My torn, bleeding and throbbing knees being further injured with every move but eventually, I was VICTORIOUS.
I stood up, I held my head high, I rubbed the blood from my legs into my friends jacket and I strutted away with a smile on my face.
(Then cried and complained all night)
But that is not what this blog post is about.
This is my advice to you.
This one is for the fallers and the stumblers, for the trippers and the tumblers, hold your heads high, hold your mascara even higher and pray that your scars heal quicker than your dignity.