...I walked up the stairs to the Maeser building. And, well, I may have been wearing four-inch-gray-suede-heeled-ankle-boots. And I may have been walking very quickly. And it may have been snowing. Maybe.
And you know, when it snows, and you have a heavy bag full of STUFF slung over one shoulder, and you're stressed to the max about being late and you're not really watching where you're stepping and you glance over your shoulder to see what-is-that-bright-yellow-thing-on-that-tree-over-there? and you may seem just a little bit ADD because you're looking around at everything else instead of where you're walking and all the while your four-inch heels are clackclackclackclacking down the sidewalk toward the stairs and you're STILL looking around at everything except your path and you decide to take the slippery, snowy, ancient, bumpy stairs in front of the Maeser building TWO at a time because you deceive yourself into thinking you'll get inside faster and be less late than you thought you would and then you L E A P . . .
Well, when you do that...
this may happen...
After which, of course you immediately pick yourself up, grab the heavy bag full of stuff, sling it over your shoulder again, and scramble up the rest of the stairs, pretending like absolutely nothing happened.
Not that I am speaking from experience. This is purely hypothetical.
There is just no way to regain the dignity lost from falling down the stairs. There is no graceful way to recover from that.
That's what I've heard from OTHER people who have lost said dignity, of course. I've never done this myself, of course. Of course.