Talk Derby To Me

This is the mostly true somewhat embarrassing tale of my Kentucky derby day in 2017. It began with a rainy drive to work through the metropolis Los Angeles area on the as always crowded freeways of Southern California. I left my Alpine mountain home at 6000 feet and ascended into the clouds down below along with about 20 drivers in Lexus SUVs who were terrified of driving in the rain. I literally felt like the only driver on the highway who was not about to poop myself out of extreme fear of foggy mountain roads.

Eventually I finally, finally made it out of the absolutely gorgeous foggy forest into the concrete jungle of freeways, traffic and about 1 million Los Angeles drivers and made my way towards the San Gabriel Valley and my home away from home, the green grandstand of Santa Anita Park.

I don’t know if there’s a better place to spend a Saturday morning on a crisp cold and rainy spring day, especially the first Saturday in May than California’s art deco architectural dream green grandstand and the ponies at Santa Anita Park.

I was in a glorious mood as I walked in decked out for derby in my vintage dress and absolutely fantastic high-heeled boots; I had paid just $20 for the entire outfit at my favorite goodwill the week before.

Fascinator adorning my henna brightened red hair I practically skipped into my work place in such a great mood, with my binder full of pick four and pick five race card selections from Santa Anita Park and also Churchhill Downs in Kentucky. I was absolutely ready for a great day of Kentucky Derby fun.

Flash forward two hours and 20,000 steps through that green grandstand in my brand-new high-heeled green boots and practically having teardrops dripping down my face along with the wet rain drops of the day. That’s exactly how I felt.

Those gorgeous green boots were beyond cute and they were killing me.

Kentucky Derby Saturday is one of the most fun days I normally have at my job as a wagering ambassador and handicapper but I completely ruined my fun by hobbling myself for the love of fashion.

I figured millions of women wear heels every day. I can wear heels. I can be a girl.

I was painfully wrong.

The most comical part of my day was as I was limping to my car after six hours straight of being on my feet and nearly 20,000 terrible steps, I could see the finish line in sight. My black Subaru SUV with my wonderful ballet flats was so close I could see it across the parking lot.

I had just texted my coworker to tell her I was seriously considering taking off my ridiculous boots and actually walking the last quarter mile to my car in my stockings boot less ( and I was kind of sort of somewhat joking)

I opened up my binder to grab my car keys and all my tip money I had worked so hard and limped through my day to collect flew in every which was across the parking lot.

I literally almost burst into tears as I scrambled around in the parking lot trying frantically to stomp on twenties in the cyclone the parking lot had just become.

Over course being that this was the race track there were at least two track rats ( race track degenerate gamblers) smoking cigarettes and watching me scramble through the parking lot chasing twenties on the wind and trying to pick them up in my vintage dress.

How is it that I can hike 23 miles up a mountain but I can’t wear heels at work for 5 hours without turning into a crying crippled wreck?

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