It was Darling Husband’s birthday on Saturday, and after getting together with the family earlier in the day, we met some friends and went out for some drinks at night. We chose the bar we almost always go to (and where we met), are friends with the bartender, and can relax. It’s kind of like our punk/metal version of Cheers.
Of course the universe had other plans.
As the evening was hitting its stride, drinks were flowing, people were loosening up, dancing, talking and having a good time, I was suddenly pulled outside because one of my friend’s had fallen and hit his head, and he was bleeding.
That’s never what you want to hear while you’re half in the bag.
I joined the group of people examining the gash (which was wide, but not deep) and got a clean towel and some ice on it. My friend was a trooper, probably because he didn’t realize quite how much it hurt, or just how much blood there was all over him and his coat.
|The attention getting heels|
So I’m standing there in a crowd of people, holding an ice-packed towel to my friend’s gashed and bloody noggin, trying to convince him he needs to sit down (because he was sure he was fine), and stranger and his friends walk straight up to me, and say, “I love your shoes.”
Never mind the fact that I’m standing in a fur coat in April that has blood all over one sleeve and am yelling at a guy who is so blood-drenched he looks like a horror movie, or that I have a bloody ice-pack in my hands, and am surrounded by people.
Obviously I’m not busy. Let’s talk fashion. It’s always the perfect time to discuss the merits of the metallic shoe and why I prefer shiny metallic to dull.
Or I’m yelling at a bloody guy and maybe, just maybe I’m a little busy.
Too bad I didn’t have my business cards with me, I could have tossed one to him and we could have discussed my heels at a more opportune time. Like one that doesn’t involve bloody head wounds.