I have a tendency to walk into walls. It’s not a trait that I’m proud of, but I’m easily distracted. I get lost in my thoughts, turn, miscalculate doorways, and bam: I’m tasting drywall and plaster.
Once, I was walking alongside a friend on Rodeo Drive, she’s relaying the most fascinating story about mineral makeup. Next thing I know, she’s in the Marc Jacobs shop and I’m in their window. Complete face plant. They had to bring out Windex and wipe off my smeared lipstick, and I can tell you, they didn’t do anything to help me! I threw the back of my hand against my forehead and swooned to the floor, hoping everyone would think I had some sort of fainting spells, bad batch of Botox…Something. Anything.
I went to the doctor to see what was physically wrong. Official diagnosis: klutzy and focused on the wrong priority for the moment. In fact, he said, “Haley, you need to get your head out of the clouds. You need to prioritize.”
Well, there’s an understatement. I need to keep my head out of plate-glass windows, most definitely. (I actually paid money for that diagnosis.) I should have just gone for a pedicure. I can always focus better after a pedicure, and I don’t feel dull-witted afterwards. There’s nothing that says, There, there, everything is going to be fine, like a foot massage and fresh polish.
In retrospect, it probably shouldn’t have surprised me when my marriage did its own face plant. But I was completely blindsided, my head in the wrong cloud once again. Jay had moved on, and I simply hadn’t noticed. (Truth be told, there wasn’t much difference between the marriage being intact, and its suddenly being over, except I had to collect my things and move out to make space for the new woman he’d selected to ignore.)
By now, I probably shouldn’t admit that I’m blond because it has nothing to do with the fact that my head’s in the clouds. Really, it doesn’t. It’s two separate facts: I’m blond. And I walk into walls.