I was walking across the street with Eddy, severely underdressed, on our way to meet Luci et al for dancing hilarity. My heels were cute, sturdy, but flat, with no traction. These were not all terrain fashion statements.

So when a guy heading the other way, wearing eyeliner, looking cute as hell, says, "Hey, I love your coat!" and I turn and say "Thanks!" and try to look all runway model about it, the first thing to go is my footing.

I land sprawled on the asphalt, Eddy already ahead of me and standing on the curb, looking amused, with just the right amount of concern. I am mortified beyond any and all sense. This, for some reason, perhaps because I am no longer a teenager, goes well beyond the period stain on the back of the dress, the lipstick on not only the teeth, but the face.

Cute boy rushes back to me and says "Oh my God! Are you okay? You must need a hug."

I, still sitting on the ground trying to assess the glass absorption into my palms apologize for making him have to witness my flailing around like a clumsy ass.

He insists on helping me up and embracing me, his date furious on the opposite corner, while Eddy offers me an elbow when I catch up to him.

Now I understand why women hold onto the proffered arm.