Happy times, and tonight was supposed to one of those: The Annual White Party at Vizcaya. But charging home last night I rounded one of the more dark corners of the house and tripped on large planters the gardener had placed there until the morning. Appalling would be one way of describing it, and--although nothing was broken and any bruises are hidden--the pain in incredible.
Of course, nothing short of death stops a good time and it is actually heretical in a town like this to even think you couldn't pull through. I have been reminded that one simply can't drop out on something Henrietta has spent $750 on tickets for, let alone the weeks spent planning the outfits, my need to coordinate all transportation, blah, blah, blah. I guess there is always some pill available, but that leaves out drinking, and THAT's a real horror.