Tuesday, September 3, 2013

A night out with the girls

The evening started with a lovely Spanish dinner. Unluckily for the people around us, our pores were soon filled with enough garlic to scare a whole army of zombies away by only breathing. After dinner we were going to a coverband at the local tennisclub while I was the driver (for those who don't know me: this is not something I like at all). Oh, this was bound to be fun.

The band played everything: from Meatloaf to Major Lazer to music suitable for - sigh- polonaise (according to Wikipedia the English name for this 'dance' is Conga line but I doubt anyone would know what I am talking about). The crowd was almost as diverse as the music. I didn't know who I was feeling sorry for the most: the girl in the 3/4 pants, the girl with the pornblond highlights or the tenth boy in the room with a Jack&Jones t-shirt that had a text printed on that made no sense at all. I saw several guys singing along with the band. One was making eye-contact while playbacking. But no, I am not impressed that you know the lyrics of Eliza Doolittle's Pack up, nor by the camo pants or slippers you are wearing. 

Apart from people with an awful taste in clothing, there were just people who annoyed me (even if they were in nice clothes). If there is one thing: drunk fourty-plussers who misbehave. Misbehaving is quite wide in my opinion. I saw women grinding along with Snoop Dogg, trying out there best twirking-moves on Bubblebutt and sticking out their tongues at their best mates as if they hadn't had this much fun in years. I saw men trying to hit on girls my age and even got to experience their flirting-techniques while one man stepped a little bit closer to my butt each time he raised this hands. Seriously, do you really have to be fifty to misbehave like THIS? I know a bunch of twenty-something people who can better behave when drunk than you cougars and 20-year-out-of-shape-fitnessboys.

When the band stopped playing, the DJ thought he could impress the crowd by playing Nirvana (shoot, you almost got me hooked, boy!) but luckily I saw some nice people I hadn't seen in a while and went over to talk. We were having a drink (water that is) and even some subtle dance moves were coming along. I was just thinking about leaving when I felt something unpleasant against the back of my legs. My love for shorts did not come in handy this time.

Apparently a fifty-year-old women was so happy to see her playmate that she wrapped her arms around him and forgot all about the full glass of beer she was holding in her wrinkled hand. That smashed onto the floor and subsequently onto my legs; glass inclusive. BITCH, YOU BETTER DID NOT MESS UP MY SHOES was my first thought. When I looked down, I saw that there was a bigger problem: blood was dripping down my left lower leg. A friend of mine took me near the lights to have a closer look. I cleaned up the blood with a tissue and saw a one inch deep slit. Say what now? I didn't feel anything and was surprised to see that big of a slit. Advised by one of my friends we went to see the doctor so that it could be pasted or sewed. So I drove together with a good friend to the nearest doctor who was awakened by her phone ringing at 1 a.m.

After two stitches without sedation (waxing is like a dozen needles stinging you, what are two stitches then?) and minus 70 euro, I was back home. Only left with frustration about not being able to walk in the sun without serious protection for one year (me! the sunlover!) and some deep-rooted unsympathy for drunk fourty-plussers. This better not be an ugly scar, bitch.


  1. Nice post!
    Lovely blog, I'm following you on Bloglovin :)