Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo ... I DID IT (AGAIN)! It feels great to complete a third year of posting for 30 days in a row. There are days I can't find one word to write about (thank gawd for Wordless Wednesday). There are so many topics I feel like I can't write about in case I am accused of attempting a mental beat down. There are days I simply don't have the time to post because being a mom and a full time employee come first. But, I am an over achiever, so if someone doesn't stop me I will write just to write. Writing just to write seems to suck some of the creativity out of me. Yes, NaBloPoMo is a great achievement, but some days it doesn't really feel fulfilling. The fabulous Mrs. Flinger has started a new challenge ... to get back to our roots and remember why we are here ... to really write. Like the over achiever I am I signed up for the challenge to write, be open to critique and write more in hope to become a better writer.
That brings me to my last post of NaBloPoMo and my first post for Write of Passage ... my most embarrassing story.
I was living in San Francisco working for Gap in their downtown office. I watched the rain coming down steadily while I was riding a packed bus home during rush hour. My work bag and umbrella were in my left hand as I gripped the handrail with my right. The stairs of the bus were wet from people getting on and off the bus so I was being careful not to slip. What I didn't expect was the heel of my boot getting caught in the groove of last step.
Within a split second I found myself face first in the gutter and my heel still stuck on the stair. I could feel the sting on my hands and knees where they were scraped raw from the impact with the concrete. But, that sting didn't compare to the burning stares I was getting from the people on the bus or the heat from the blush rising in my cheeks. I yanked my shoe from the step and glanced up at the faces looking out at me through the bus windows. They all had a look of shock on their faces, but not one of them moved. I heard the bus driver ask if I was alright and I just mumbled "fine" back to him. He responded so kindly by shutting the bus doors and driving to the next stop. I slowly gathered up my bag and umbrella and hobbled up the street to my apartment. Once my front door closed behind me a tear rolled down my cheek as I prayed that I didn't know anyone who was on that bus.
Eight years later the scar on my knee still makes me blush.
