The night went by fairly uneventfully with a few people stacking in on the dance floor, a creepy camera guy zooming in on girl’s butts while it was projected on a large screen and the serving of a very interesting mystery meat for dinner. I didn’t drink as much as last time either so the ability to see was an unexpected surprise. Those who know me would know I’m not the biggest party animal in the world and would rather spend a night in on the couch than go out drinking till 4am...generally because I get sleepy at about 11 or 12 and start dozing off....at clubs. I’m just lucky my mum has enough money to keep paying people to take me out and be my friends.
All was going great until the ball ended at midnight, at which point my carriage turned into a pumpkin and the horses turned back into mice. Ok not really, but what actually happened included torrential rains and misleading bus drivers. The after party was set to be at Prince as it was the year prior with buses apparently waiting outside ready to take us there. When we got to the buses, we were sent away, told that it was the bus for Monash students going to Tramp. Because of this, we went on an adventure in our tiny dresses through the rain to find a cab. Eventually we found one with a club photographer in it on his way to Eve so we jumped in with him. After finding out our jobs paid less than half of his, we finally arrived at Prince freezing our butts off and feeling less than stunning. This is the venue where I would later be carried out of in a great deal of pain.
15 minutes into the afterparty, shit went down. We were all dancing when a young lady lost her footing and began to fall from a step. On her way down she stood on my foot in her sky high stilettos, twisting hard as she fell. Don’t worry, she was fine, my foot on the other hand was not. I don’t usually swear much because my voice is really high pitched so it just sounds odd so when I do, you know something is serious. I yelled the f-word out for a total of ten seconds before limping away to the bathroom. As soon as I got in there, I sat down to check out the damage. Already my foot had swollen with a lump the size of a golf ball just above the toes on my left foot. I didn’t even realise I’d sat next to my friend Jacinta but thank the holy mother of Jesus that I did. After 20 seconds of trying to be a big girl I burst into tears with the most excruciating pain I’d ever felt finally becoming too much.
Many girls came and went through that bathroom, all with an empathy I knew all too well. I’ve been stood on multiple times but nothing like this. I was offered ice and water but no alcohol. At that stage I was in need of a whole bottle of tequila, regretting my foolish decision not to drink in the first place. Soon my wailing was becoming too much for my friends so they decided it was time to make a move. They pushed through the crowd hoisting me off the ground while screaming “SHE HAS A BROKEN FOOT, GET THE F*$#K OUT OF THE WAY!” Finally I was down the stairs and in a private room getting fed nurofen while my foot was up on top of a table. At that point, all I wanted was my mummy. The call to her went like this:
Me (while balling my eyes out): Mum, someone stood on my foot in a stiletto, I think it’s broken
Mum: Are you drunk?
Me: No mum, I’m unfortunately sober and my foot is broken. I need you to come get me.
Mum: Who are you meant to be going home with?
Me: The Brighton girls. Mum-
Mum: What time are they leaving?
Me: I don’t know! You are not understanding the gravity of the situation! My foot is broken! I need you to come get me!
Mum: Ok, ok I’m coming.
I later found out my mum thought I was kidding. What kind of person calls their mum when they’re drunk and says they have a broken foot? More like who calls their mum when they’re drunk in general? Long story short, I went to the hospital, got pushed around in a wheelchair, got an x-ray and was told it wasn’t actually broken but just a chipped bone. I feel bad for my poor friends and my mum who had to put up with me whinging. The entire time I was in hospital, all I complained about was how I would have to wear a boot or worse, have to wear crutches. My mum also asked me if I punched the girl. Such a good role model.
In conclusion, until last night there was nothing heels could do to make me think about them in a poor light. I’m not quite willing to hang my pairs up just yet but I do think I’ll take more care when dancing with drunk girls...or take knuckle dusters next time I go out.
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