I went out with friends last night to celebrate their 30th birthdays. We had a blast at this quaint little Irish pub in St. Paul. They had some awesome beer on tap. Husband and I drank STELLA. I have never had it before or even knew they made a beer called Stella. We had to do it because one of my best friend's has the same name.
(Sidebar: You can just imagine all the jokes that night. "I've always wanted to taste you, Stella."
"Oh Stella, you feel so good when you hit the lips!"
"Stella ~ Is this your hair in my beer?")
Anyways, after six hours of fun with the crew, our boys, and too many Jagerbombs to count, we went out to the parking lot to chat. I decided to grab a big bag out of the back of our car and walk it over to a friend's car.
At 2am.
Drunk.
In knee-high boots with a skinny 3" heel.
Across a crappy parking lot.
My right ankle rolled and I went down harder than a whore at a sausage fest. I went down faster than a wet fart.
I knew I hurt but at that point, I was too drunk to care. Then I woke up this morning and felt like I got hit by a truck. After a visit to Urgent Care and normal xrays, I have a sprained ankle and a fucked up knee.
(That last diagnosis was all me...)
Moral of the Story?
It's all STELLA's fault.
*wink*
3 comments:
Feel better soon, Hunz. Turning 30 did stink, but turning 35 gives your body permission to *totally* betray you.
Ahh, the Stella Artois is an angry mistress, my friend. Stella is the hipster beer of choice here in Philly, which is a good thing because the Pabst Blue Ribbon trend was making me ready to hurl.
I've been feeling like I'm on my way out since I fractured my sacrum in '95 and the carpal tunnel hit in '97.
Your right foot must be tired by now. I hope your travels were GR8!!
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