Unlike my sticky situation a few years ago, my latest debacle involved fashion, not glue. And I’m here to tell you that when the words ‘sticky’ and ‘fashion’ get used in the same sentence the result is, um… undesirable.
As you may recall, I hate dressing up. I haven’t bought new clothes in nearly ten years and I don’t have a clue what’s stylish now; but I’m pretty sure the wide-legged pants and bell-bottoms in my closet are passé. (Or maybe not; what do I know?)
Anyway, I had a few panicky moments when I consulted my closet an hour before I was due to present my talk last week; but I did manage to get dressed. From deep in the archives of my plastic shoe boxes I dug out my two pairs of comfortable dress shoes, and I was halfway out the door when I realized there was something sticky on one of the soles.
I rushed back, stuffed my feet into the other pair, and hurried off to the Civic Centre… only to discover that we were locked out.
When we finally got inside with only fifteen minutes to spare before the presentation, I rushed around setting up my projector and laptop. Then I retired to the bathroom, hoping to dry the sweat that was rolling off me in the stuffy atmosphere.
That’s when I realized that, in my trauma over dress clothes, I’d forgotten to re-apply my deodorant. And I’d worn a sleeveless top. Every time I raised my arms, the pit-stink nearly knocked me over.
Okay; fine. The front rows were at least six feet away. The air conditioning was kicking in. I could carry this off.
So I dove into my presentation, getting totally immersed as I always do… until I realized that my damn shoe was sticking to the floor and un-sticking itself with an audible snap each time I moved.
For shit’s sake, what had I stepped in this time?!?
I ignored it as best I could and finished the talk; and everybody eventually trickled out.
That’s when I discovered that I hadn’t stepped in anything. During their long contact with the plastic shoeboxes, the synthetic parts of the shoes had undergone some kind of chemical reaction. The leather upper was fine, but the sole had turned into a gooey mess.
There were sticky black marks on the floor where I had stood; and a big piece of one sole had torn loose to flop around like a clown shoe with every step.
As I skulked out of the Civic Centre, Hubby helpfully remarked, “You left a piece of your shoe back there.”
I’m proud to report that there was only a smidgen of vulgarity in my response as I squelched my sticky way across the parking lot.
So the vindictive fashion gods have won another round. I’m afraid to even speculate what they’ll do for an encore; but if I’m lucky it’ll be another ten years down the road.
Maybe I’ll wait until then to buy new dress clothes…
Book 15 is under way! I had a great plotting week — the subplot is mostly done and I’m working on the details of the main story. Hope to start putting words on the page this week!