The trouble with being a badass is...

The trouble with being a badass is that you don't know when to tell people that you're actually kind of in pain. Sure, my knee hurts some, and it's grossly swollen, but I mean, I'm fine. Seriously. I'll be fine. I've had 2 knee surgeries. Does my knee hurt, of course, but I'm fine. Leave me alone, I'm fine.

I started this blog post with the badass facade to reduce the feeling of idiocy that I'm feeling this evening. I fell. I caused a commotion. My knee is (actually, both knees are) really swollen. I'm fine. I shed some tears of embarrassment (shhh). But I re-enacted a good comical story afterward.

I don't actually remember the details of what happened, but I will try to relate them. Though many bystanders may deem me as "the drunk girl who fell in the bar and provided much comic relief for the evening," I will only ever claim that I was neither sober nor drunk, but enjoying happy hour.

I was sitting on a stool. A tall stool...an unnecessarily tall stool. My friend commented that it was a stool to which he needed to commit - there was no standing or quasi sitting - this was a stool on which you needed to sit. I committed and was sitting on this tall stool.

Said tall stool had some much welcome rungs to rest my feet. When you are that high in the air, foot rests are in fact very valuable. Your feet cannot reach the ground, so it is comforting to rest your feet.

My friends are funny, interesting. A conversation was occurring, and I wished to be closer to this conversation, so I leaned forward. And then life turned into slow motion.

I was wearing heels this evening. Not 4 inch crazy heels. 2 inch perfectly reasonable heels - my favorite work heels. Regardless, as I leaned forward, my legs and feet had full intentions of removing themselves from the rungs of this stool, and catching myself on the ground to support my wish to lean forward and better hear the conversation that was occurring. This did not happen.

My heel was stuck in the rung. I was still sitting in the stool. I continued to sit in the stool as it, and I, fell forward. In slow motion. Flat. Go ahead and let yourself have that mental image. It's probably hilarious.

When I, and the stool, were on the ground, my heel was still stuck in the rung. And somehow, my drink was still in my hand, unscathed. I, however, was not. I was soaking wet, as I noticed *someone's* drink did not survive the event. Friends were offering me shirts, napkins, comfort. Management executed the fastest cleanup of a spillage that I'd ever seen. I felt no pain (at that point), but I was mortified, and VERY aware, that I was THAT GIRL.

Suddenly, there was a shot from the bartender. I refused. This shot went to the friend whose drink I "did not spill", no, but "took with me" as gravity pulled me down. Next there was a full beer. Umm... okay.. thanks? Friends told me I was bleeding. I guess I *did* land on some glass. Management gave me a bandaid. I was apologizing profusely. The cute waiter told me not to be embarrassed or feel bad (yeah right). Management, after assuring that I was okay, had me write down my name and phone number. Still in shock, I told them I wasn't going to sue. He laughed, though he still knew what he was doing, and I still don't know why he took my number.

I continued to tell people I was fine. I was. I am. However, my skinny jeans betrayed my lies by showing my no longer skinny knee.


Okay, I admit, it was kind of fun to show off how swollen my knee was. Injuries without battle wounds are not worth the pain.

I guess that's the end of the story. I was embarrassed. Writing helps conquer embarrassment. My knee is swollen. I guess ice conquers that.