I’m going to do a re-cap of this past weekend’s final event with my college girls, but that will first involve me actually loading the pictures onto my laptop.  So, in the meantime, since you all pretended seemed to like reading the first column I wrote for my town’s newspaper back during my sophomore year of college, I decided to share another one with you (remember, I was 19 when I wrote this).  In the column, titled Pride Cometh Before A (Big) Fall, I wrote about how, no matter where I am in the world, I’m totally capable of — and typically find myself — falling on my face.

Like I said last time, some things just never change.

Last week, Lee hosted one of my favorite events of the year: Frontline.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with Lee-speak, I’ll let you in on the secret.  Several times during the year, Lee opens its campus to throngs of high school seniors who are considering enrolling in the university.  The students comes from all over the country and spend a day getting to know the campus, faculty and students.

I’m lucky enough to get to spend some time with these prospective students during their day as a “college student.”  My main role is to serve as a tour guide, taking groups of students and their families on brief campus tours and then eat lunch with them in our newly-renovated (and much improved) dining hall.

I get excited about Frontline long before the actual event.  As corny as this might sound, I guess I’m like a kid on Christmas morning: waking up long before everyone else and sneaking down to see what’s waiting under the tree.  Only for me, it’s fun high school students wrapped up in dreams about college life.

When I met the group that I would leading in a tour, I noticed that one family seemed familiar.  They noticed me looking at them and mentioned that they had attended a previous Frontline event and had been in my tour group before.  I quickly offered to let them switch to another group (after all, who would want to hear the same gal again?) but they assured me that I had kept them amused the last time and they were just back for round two.  Feeling a bit of pride seeping in, I started my tour with a big smile and stories of college life.

I’ve always heard that pride comes before a fall, but I didn’t know it could be so literal.  Upon entering our first building in the tour, I fell up the stairs and found myself staring at cement.  The group of 20 behind me gasped in unison before rushing to help me up.  Embarrassed, I continued the tour in an upright position and dropped my group off at the dining hall a few minutes before lunch.

As I was saying goodbye to the group, the woman who had taken my tour before approached me with her daughter and husband in tow.  Nervously, she asked me if she could ask a confidential question and if I would be willing to give an honest answer.  I plastered the you’re-getting-ready-to-ask-me-what-life-at-Lee-is-really-like smile on my face and assured her I would be truthful.

“Honey, do they make you fall during your tours?” she asked, leaning in close.

Rather shocked, I replied “Actually, no.  Why would you ask?”

“Well, last time we were here, you fell during our tour and then today you fell again.  We just thought that the school might make you fall to make us laugh,” she explained.

I began laughing and quickly explained that my ability to fall in any place at any given moment and in any pair of shoes is a trait that my friends have come to love (or at least make fun of).  I’ve fallen all over the Lee campus and in three foreign countries.  Sometimes I fall down steps, but I usually defy gravity and fall up the stairs.  On an almost daily basis, my roommate Jill issues her standard warning before I leave for class: no high heels, no uneven ground and always use the handrail.  Although there are no prospects at the moment, my friends have already begun taking bets on how far I will make it down the wedding aisle before falling towards the altar.

I used to be really bothered by the number of times I fall a week until a child observing one classic fall while I taught his Sunday school class offered a great viewpoint.

“Miss Amy Beth,” he began, as he watched me pick myself up from the floor.  “Don’t be sad.  At least you get to pick out a cool Band-Aid.”

I wonder just how large a box of Band-Aids you can buy.

Originally published in Bradley News Weekly on February 11, 2004.