Okay, a few days have now passed and I think I am okay to write about this Embarrassing Incident. Yeah, I know, me involved in an Embarrassing Incident. Another Embarrasssing Incident. So unusual, isn’t it.
Saturday night was PG’s work Christmas party. This is the one in the nice hotel downtown, with dinner and your first two drinks paid for by the company, a dance, and cheap rates on hotel rooms for the night. We always have a good time, and this year was no exception.
I quite like to dance and rarely get the chance. PG is one of those rare men who probably wouldn’t choose to go dancing, but he will dance every dance if he’s already there. (He’s also a flirt from way back, so I suppose dancing was a great way to pick up chicks back in the day. Old habits die hard: he still dances.)
So PG and I were on the dance floor. He was dancing with a co-worker’s wife, and I was dancing with the co-worker. I don’t even remember the song that the DJ was playing, just that the music was familiar to me and I knew some of the words.
Okay, here comes the Embarrassing Incident:
I fell off the dance floor.
The dance floor was flat. There was an extremely minimal incline down to the actual floor, something like half a centimetre. This tiny incline is what I fell off. My stiletto heel slid on that little edge, and the rest of me followed.
I fell flat on my ass into a pile of empty boxes beside the DJ’s table, with my feet up in the air. I squashed the boxes. I was so disoriented that I couldn’t get up. I had nothing to grab on to anyway. So I lay there.
As PG relates it, “One minute you were there. The next minute you weren’t. I looked around, wondering where you’d gotten to. Then I saw you laying on a pile of boxes and nobody was helping you up. The DJs were just staring at you.”
The guy I’d been dancing with hauled me up at that point, I got a fit of the giggles, and we danced till the end of the song. What else could I do? Everyone who’d seen me must have thought that I was some drunken middle-aged suburban housewife and pitied the poor man who was stuck taking me home.
But at least I had underwear on. And tights. Even though I’d already ripped the tights earlier that evening.