Many of my pals often lament the state of clothing these days; since I’ve been a free-lancer, my wardrobe has gone from casual business casual to “straight out of the dorms,” what with my affinity for tie-dyes, concert t-shirts, flip-flops, yoga pants and the like. (Last year, I started maturing my wardrobe a tad, but I often still look like one of those scary people who never quite declare a major—even when they’re, you know, 49.) This weekend brought Peep’s christening, however, and the delicious weather that would be SO inappropriate for my usual black suit or brown dress pants, so I decided that I would hit Tarzhay to see if they had anything remotely interesting for cheap. Amazingly enough, they did, and I ended up getting the first dress (!) I tried on, a faux-wrap number with an empire waist and black, white and gray leopard print. All it needed was red accessories—and I do have the be-all to end all in red accessories, as y’all know— and I’ll make a nattily dressed christening witnesser, I thought. It’ll be wonderful.

So, fast forward to Sunday: It’s 12:35, and after I’d a) spent 40 minutes in the bathtub ridding my legs of their winter covering (hey, it was a celibate winter, and I’m Eastern European. Do I gotta paint more of a picture?); b) covered an assignment at the local Romanian Orthodox church; and c) gotten stuck by a train as I mad the mad dash to one church from the other, I arrive with moments to spare. And I cut a pretty dashing figure, if I do say so—had my dress on, my nails painted, my contacts in, my hair toussled perfectly by the wind, and I’m rockin’ the Manolos. Couldn’t be better, right?

The first thing I noticed as I began my descent to the floormat in the church foyer (OH. YES.) was that my foot completely dislodged from my right Manolo as its dainty little stiletto wedged itself in the doorjam. After that, it was the searing pain to my knees, which had not only partially broken my fall, but were now skinned as my body lurched forward upon impact. And as I lay there stomach down and praying that my dress is still covering my ass because holy shit! no one needs to see either the industrial sized girdle I’ve got on or the fact that I’ve only shaved above my knee because hey! celibate, it took every bit of my composure not to yell “FUCK! THAT HURT!” at the top of my lungs. Fortunately, a gentleman who turned out to be Peep’s Godmother’s husband unwedged my shoe and helped yank me up off the floormat, slightly worse for the wear and not just a tad mortified.

Poppy’s brother, who was in the foyer with his little girl, also witnessed my grand entrance and, ever the videographer, said that he caught it on tape. He was just kidding, of course, but if y’all happen to catch something on YouTube and my dress is up over my ass, do me a favor and flag it as “Offensive”; NOBODY needs to see that.