Finding My Balance
Gravity and I have a long standing love-hate relationship. It mostly loves me and really likes cuddling with me, and I actually hate it for pulling me down all the time.
In order – my top 5 most embarrassing spills (to date):
5. Streeters Bar. Circa 1A on a Sunday morning. The only reason I know this one happened is because the following transpired at brunch on Sunday afternoon:
Me to my girlfriend: Hey, so – did we go to Streeters last night?
My girlfriend: Yeah – you don’t remember? You were so hammered.
Me: Yeah, I thought we may have, only because I have this really distinct image in my head of pitching forward into a life-sized Jenga set.
My GF: HAHAHAHA! Yeah, you were dancing around it, and then you just fell into it, scattering blocks everywhere, and then the guys we were playing with were like “We win.”
4. Moe’s Cantina, River North. It’s 1130P on a Saturday night. I had been pre-gaming with the girls before we went out, dressed like absolute floozies. My girlfriend and I went to the ladies room, which happens to be down a long corridor that a drunk-ass idiot can treat like a catwalk if she’s so inclined. Which I was, naturally. On the way back, I saw a boy who I was convinced was *clearly* interested in me (I mean how could you not be?) and used the opportunity to breeze past him, and turn my head around as if to give him the second look double-take, at which point I lost my balance and ate concrete. My friend, bless her heart, burst out into hysterical laughter and helped me up, while the gentleman walked away with raised eyebrows and a good story for his friends.
3. The Mid. It’s 5A on a Sunday morning. I had just gotten back into town after being gone for the holidays, and I wanted to RAGE. And RAGE I did. To the point where I somehow thought I had checked a coat, even though I was literally holding my coat in my hands at the time. The cruel bastards who designed this club put the coat check at the bottom of a 90-degree inclined staircase – I’m sure this is for the sheer amusement of the abused/underpaid coat check attendants. I took one step down that damned thing and instantly lost my footing and tumbled all the way to the bottom. I stood up, looked at my hands, and said, “Oh THERE’S my coat!”
2. Some God Awful Club for Babies. It’s 3A on a Saturday morning (are you seeing a pattern?). I had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend earlier that week and I wanted to exercise the demons. I happened to know a couple of people who were WAY too young for me to be hanging out with, that were going to some terrible club with their equally too-young friends, and I dragged along a girlfriend of mine (read: my age) for support. But first we went to a BYO Thai place and got really REALLY drunk, because that is the only way we could think of to cope with the idea of going to this place. Well, needless to say, I showed up wasted already. I fell pretty much as soon as I stepped up to the bar – like a “legs spread-eagled, showing the world my bidness, needed my friends to help me up” kind of fall. Then the bartender served me another drink. There should be a law against that.
1. Studio Paris. It’s 2:30A on a Sunday morning. I was dating a boy that I was sincerely excited about. He left his friends to come meet me at the club, but it was closing so they wouldn’t let him up. I thought, “No problem, I’ll go downstairs and we can go somewhere else!” (clearly the idea of calling it a night was not even an option). I made it all the way down the stairs just fine, for which I was SO PROUD of myself, but Proverbs 11:12 gets me every time (When pride comes, then comes disgrace). Some geniuses at this place had decided to set up all the bar stools near the bottom of the stairs as a barrier of sorts. I see this guy sitting at the end of the bar waiting for me and decide I’ll just walk between the bar stools rather than walk all the way around them since that would take me too far out of the way…. My heel gets tangled in the first one I try to walk past, bringing down not just me, but three bar stools on top of me. I hear a collective “Ohhhhh!!!!” gasp from all the people who have been making their way out of the club at closing time. Next thing I know, there’s about 10 hands reaching down to try and help me up, and I’m so pretzeled in this bar stool mess that it took 4 people to extract me and put me back on my feet. I finally wobble over to my guy, who has miraculously MISSED the entire incident, because I had accidentally pressed the button to call him on my phone just as I fell, and he was talking into the phone and not paying attention to what was happening about 20 feet to his left. Then he asks me if I’m bleeding. I look down to see I am, in fact, bleeding profusely from a perfectly round hole on my leg, where I had managed to spear myself with my own stiletto. It is now a permanent scar on my leg, and I can’t wait to tell my grandkids how I got it.