Tuesday, 23 June 2015

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOUR LEG WISHES FOR . . .


"Evidence of an epic night!!! #wokeupinmyCheapKnockoffs"  
 
Ever since Rihanna tweeted that photo of her leg the morning after "an epic night!!!," my leg has not been able to control its jealousy. It's been nagging and whining and begging me to put on high heels and take it out for an epic night on the town so it can have as much fun as Rihanna's leg.

I tried to reason with it. 
"But you're not better yet," I said. "Don't you remember how you practically exploded in that moped accident in Bermuda?"
But my leg is a stubborn little shit, I'm learning, and so on Saturday night when friends dropped by and suggested we go out, my leg leapt up and got my six-inch stilettos and said, "Finally!"
"Nonsense," I scolded. "You're not ready for heels. Here, we'll wear these cute little flats."
Yeah, well the problem with that is flats are friggin' ugly, so as soon as I put them on even I had to admit I would rather wear the six-inchers and risk permanent nerve damage. (You can't have an "epic" night in flats, ladies. You just can't.)

So off we went, first to Teejays, a local bar where the DJ (Brucybruce) is so good that even the guy who looked like a cross between a trucker, a biker and Dog the Bounty Hunter jumped out of his seat and started getting down. We were having such a blast that when they turned on the "closing time" lights we all agreed it would be physically impossible to stop the fun train now. The momentum would have killed us. 
So we went to ... hm, what's the word I'm looking for here? ah, yes, an after-hours ... and partied some more. At one point I turned to my girlfriend and said, "I've been dancing for hours and my leg doesn't even hurt one bit!" and she snickered and said, "That's because you've basically poured an entire bottle of vodka into it."
Which I have to say was a ridiculous lie. I was drinking tequila, for God's sake. 

Anyway, the revelry continued until 4:30 in the morning, at which point someone called a cab and we coasted home in a haze of laughter and alcohol fumes, and it wasn't until the next afternoon, when we reunited for breakfast (if you can call 3 p.m. "breakfast"), that we realized two of us had lost our glasses, one of us had lost her phone and yet another could not understand where all his money had gone. 

As for me, the pain that had not manifested itself the night before had now arrived with a vengeance.
"Well I hope you're happy now," I muttered to my leg as I adjusted its ice pack. "Because last night? That was seven different kinds of epic."

LEG'S NOTE: It was okay. But I've just seen this picture of Ke$ha's leg and now I've decided we need to start going to the gym.