A moment of pure, untainted idiocy on my part:
At one period in my life, I had a fondness for wearing “peter pan getaway shoes” - black suede pointed bootlets with zero treads.
During this period, I was out with a bunch of friends. In the wintertime. At a playground at night. Looking thoughtfully at a wide metal slide attached to a large jungle gym. There were metal handles on either side at the top.
I really, really thought I could make it. Much like, for that brief moment as a child when you tie on your superman cape and stand on the edge of the bed, feeling, nay, knowing, in your heart of hearts that you really can fly, before reailty comes moments later flying into your chin in the shape of a dresser that busts your lip and sends you crying for mother.
I didn’t run crying for mother after this incident. After all, I was 19 or 20 at the time.
But I really, really thought I could make it. Despite the treadless shoes, despite the iced up metal slide, the handles weren’t that far away, and if I could just get a good run at it…
But no. My friends were rolling in the snow, howling with laughter and sympathy pains. I wouldn’t speak of the incident for weeks. Not so much out of injured pride as injured lip.
Here is an illustration I made of the incident.