I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Strangers

Every now and then, I come down from the cloud of misanthropy I usually reside in and admit that people may not be all that bad*. Some of them actually manage to not suck, especially when one is having a slightly Blanche Dubois moment.

Like yesterday, when I managed to fall not once but twice on my walk home from work. The first time, I fell down, woman came running over to ask if I was all right (and made me feel much better by telling me that she had fallen twice), and a man helped me up. I thanked them both profusely and continued on my way. Fifteen minutes later, I was on my ass again, and things were looking a bit more dire this time. There wasn’t anyone nearby, and I could.not.get.up. I put a hand out to push myself up and I slid. I put a foot out and I slid. It was just a sheet of ice. I was lying there liked a beached whale trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this predicament. Then a man appeared and asked if I was ok. I told him I was, and he helped me up and said that he had just spoken to a friend who had also fallen. Which made me feel slightly better. As did the fact that I had fallen twice and managed to not injure myself.

Sadly, my newfound good feelings for humanity were soon drummed out by the following thoughts:

Curse you, J. Crew and your shoddily made, overpriced crap. Waterproof Wellingtons, my ass**.
Seriously, college campuses and historic homes of DC, would it be so hard to put out a little salt.
Is it really necessary for three cars in a row to try to run me over?

Sigh. It was nice while it lasted.

*Lord Kissington and I both subscribe to following maxim: “Sure, I like people in theory. Just not so much in practice.”
**I am still trying to figure out how something that appears to be made from one giant piece of rubber that doesn’t have any holes can leak.