Adela just can't plant those power heels on terra firma. She's been dancing with the PAC, with whom she wants a long-term relationship, reluctantly danced with the Big XII, but jilted him, and was married to the Mountain West but always had a wandering eye. She hasn't gotten any younger, Adela hasn't!, and now finds herself completely without an interested dance partner.
Her ex, the MWC, won't take her back in unless she pays rent; the XII has rejected (!!) her after courting her and now has his eye on prettier young things with more substantial dowries in Boulder, Tucson, Tempe, Eugene, Seattle and, of all places, Storrs, CT. And the PAC (no number cuz there may not be a number), is on death row with an official unofficial date with Old Sparky on July 21. Checking our calendars that is ten days away. The PAC-1?
Adela played this as if her shit don't stink. Now the odor wafts up to her nostrils from those shit-coated high heels more powerfully each day. The odds shorten that in less than a fortnight Adela will be barefoot and homeless, and her dependent, San Diego State University, living on the streets with her.