I Can't Make This Stuff Up

I have a long and illustrious history of random, ridiculous, and often laughable stuff happening to me.

A case in point: at the end of my junior year of college, I had an important class that I needed to attend as the culmination of a semester-long internship program. I was short on time that day and I wanted to be sure I got a run in before dinner, so I scheduled my day down to the minute. I had just enough time to do a 4 mile run, change my clothes, grab my internship report, and get to class.

Exactly halfway through my run, something hit me in the head. 

It was warm and watery. 

It was a huge blob of bird poop. 

This particular bird must've eaten something that didn't agree with it, because I had what amounted to avian diarrhea all up in my hair. It was everywhere. 

Grossed out like nobody's business, I finished my run with a puckered-up look of disgust. Because I'd been exactly at the halfway point, there was no way to shorten the rest of my run -- and there was no way I was going to have enough time to take a shower before going to this class.

Given the choice of a) emptying the better part of a shampoo bottle onto my head and washing out the avian diarrhea or b) going to class, I went with option A. However, this required emailing my professor to explain why I'd had to miss class. 

I could only hope that "A bird emptied the contents of its bowels into my hair" would be so ludicrous that my professor would believe that I wasn't making it up.

This morning, I had an equally awesome moment: while walking down a particularly busy street on my way to work, I inadvertently stepped into a puddle of concrete near where a construction crew was doing road work. It was slippery as all get-out, and I took exactly one step before wiping out in the most epic of ways.

We're talking both feet flying out in front of me, being briefly horizontal to the ground before crashing down, my belongings flying everywhere, and passersby slowing down in their cars to get a better look at the wreckage.

When I got up (with many thanks to the kind folks who helped me gather my stuff from the sidewalk), I realized that I'd had a very, very messy wipeout: I had concrete sludge all over my pants. Behold:

I might very well have an imprint of my derriere permanently showcased on the side of the road after this. I'm considering going back and writing "Lillian wuz here: 12-11-12" so as to immortalize myself in DC infrastructure.

Thankfully, one of my co-workers happened to have an extra pair of black pants (in my size!) in her office, so I didn't have to go home on account of having concrete sludge all over my butt. I thank my lucky stars for her and her spare pants!

I scraped my hand and bruised my leg, but the biggest wound was to my pride -- so once I recovered from the embarrassment, I was fine. Now I find it really effing funny, and I'm still laughing my (mercifully no longer concrete-encased) tuchus off about this. Because, really? Who wipes out like that?! The same folks who are mistaken for a bird port-a-potty, apparently.

I figure this is one of those stories that I'll be able to tell for quite some time: I'm filing it away in the Annals of Hilarity.