Un Drole d'Histoire Before Bedtime

So I went to an event tonight, the A is for Aldo Fragrance Collection launch party, and it was all swell and swanky and such; the wine and bubbly was pouring, the h'ordeuvres were tasting mighty fine and the regulars were all there including photographers, bloggers and big time designers.

Now all of this sounds just fine and dandy so far, and I'm sure you have only been mildly interested throughout the reading of this seemingly bland story-telling session, but rest assured that the apex moment of the night had only just begun.

After choosing to retire permanently from said schmooze fest, who should walk gracefully and triumphantly out the door only to conveniently miss the ledge and its subsequent drop in elevation to trip very obviously and unbecomingly and to almost twist her ankle? To have a waiter cede his ...errr...waiting duties to ask her if she was okay and to thereupon smile bashfully and then proceed to limp down the staircase in a sobering walk-of-shame fashion?

Me. Obviously. The things I do...the personal mortification I endure...and the body parts I damage.

Let it be known...Fashion fucking hurts.