Do not foot race on a first date.

So there's this guy I've been seeing. He's just, well, he's great. But after a little while we hadn't really gone on an official "I'm wearing makeup" date yet, so we decided to plan and execute a hot date.

There's this thing though. We're pretty awkward.

We don't feel awkward or embarrassed around each other, and I have to say he's definitely the smooth one of the two of us, but we're two pale, gangling, freckly kids, and that can make for situations that would make an onlooker just cringe. Like this one.

We were leaving a movie theater last night and on a whim decided to have a footrace in the parking lot because, well first off, why wouldn't you? And secondly, we were both fairly confident that we were going to be the winner. Tensions and expectations were high as we addressed the boundary points and started stretching. He expressed concern over my attire (converse chuck taylors, tights, and a jean skirt) but I laughed him off, saying it was only going to help my speed and accuracy.

Taking our marks, I came up with the secret and brilliant plan to start running on the count of 2 instead of 3, giving myself a 1-second advantage, delightfully taking him off guard, winning the race, and then adorably denying that I cheated as we playfully punch each other and then start making out in the middle of the parking lot and thinking about how great we are together.

Oh how I wish that's the way it went down. Oh sweet god's of time past, why can you not make that be what happened?

Instead, I took off a second early and my giant, sprawling torso and over-sized head went much, much faster than my slow legs and slipping feet went and I lost my footing, almost falling over, catching my balance, starting the all-out sprint again and then losing my footing and falling straight to the ground in a loud slap, then sliding on the concrete a few feet while he yelled "NOOOOOOO!" behind me.

The damage? My entire left side is covered in road salt and gravel. My tights are ripped open at the knee and I'm checking for blood. He tries to help me stand up, but the combined force of two awkward, embarrassed, panicking bodies stumble not once, but twice, on the way back up to standing, almost falling two more times. I hysterically laugh at myself, humiliated, as his concern grows for any potential wounds I may have gotten from the scratchy gravel parking lot. I peer over at any potential onlookers, thinking that witnessing an event of this magnitude would be one of the biggest gifts of hilarity that I could give a stranger. Only the KSTP camera man and reporter 20 feet away from us could have seen the fall but if they did, they turned their heads away in disgust.

In the car, mortified, I ask him if he's still attracted to me after that atrocity of unparalleled depths, and he dutifully lies, saying he's even more attracted to me if that's possible.

Back at my apartment Dr. New Manfriend cleans and bandages a bloody, rectangular wound on my knee, and as I reflect on one of the most awkward situations of my life, I balance my crushing shame with my swooning new crush.

We will footrace again. And perhaps I will win. I can't imagine my chances are all that good though as we have mandated an official uniform for me of running shoes, socks, elbowpads, knee pads, a helmet, wrist guards, and snowpants.

But I will try. Oh I will try.