What the what?!

Hooray! We still have blue sky in Seattle... in November! That never happens! I felt compelled to wear something ever-so-slightly spring-y in honor of the cloudless sky.

Sweater: Target

Skirt: Joseph Walker/Pink Ginger

Tights: Hue/Macy's

Shoes: Mia/Nordstrom Rack

Head band: Ann Taylor

Earrings: Vintage/Gifted

Necklace: Juicy/Nordstrom Rack

I dread going to the Post Office. In large part, it's because I feel like Post Offices are swirling vortexes of doom and darkness; you know, the sort of places where happiness and joy go to die. I've always suspected that it has something to do with the doom-and-gloom postal employees and the ever-buzzing fluorescent lights, but my theory has so far gone untested. Whatever the case, I never manage to walk out of the Post Office without something ridiculous happening. Yesterday was no exception.

Upon entering the Post Office, I vaguely registered two things: a frazzled looking mother trying to control a rambunctious three-year-old, and a sullen looking old man pulling out a wedgie (ew, Random Old Guy. Just... ew!). Everything went smoothly until I was about to leave. I had just finished tucking my wallet inside my purse, and was about to walk out the front door when I saw a tiny little blur out of the corner of my eye. I didn't think much of it until I heard a very loud "THUMP." Apparently, the ringleted little three-year-old I initially noticed when I walked into the Post Office had decided to stage a jailbreak. Somewhere between scampering away from her mother and the Post Office door, I managed to trip her. And she face-planted. On the concrete floor. Hard. The little girl didn't even seem to notice -- she hopped back up, and kept running for the door. I was actually impressed with her dedication, to be honest. Her mother, however, did notice what happened, and started walking over to me. I imagined one of two things happening: she'd slap me, call me a harlot (or maybe a slattern, I never settled on which), and storm out the door with her rambunctious (and seriously hardcore) child in tow; or, more likely, she'd give me a firm chastising that would leave me feeling like I was about the same age as her child. I was shocked when she walked over, patted me on the arm, and thanked me. Say what?! Yep. Her exact words were, "Thank you for tripping my daughter," followed by an audible and tired sigh. By the time my shock subsided, she was long gone. That poor, long-suffering woman.