“I keep thinking I’m a grownup, but I’m not” – Victoria Tennant, LA Story

 

            For the past year I’ve been struggling to convince myself that I am an adult.  I have a B.A. for starters; the next person that comments on my time at PFIZER College instead of Pitzer will come home to find their new kitten freshly steamrollered and nailed to their front door.  Considering how much that college education cost (thank you, daddy!) I’d appreciate people NOT mistaking it for a pharmaceutical company.  I’m working towards an M.B.A.; same threat goes to the people who think I’m playing basketball professionally.  Yes, NBA sounds convincingly similar, but look at me and take a freaking hint, people.  The only things that bounce when I’m on a court are my bodacious hips (admire in envy, Shakira).

            Given the educational status, having my own apartment, and my entry-level luxury car (haha Whitney), I feel I can rightly claim that I am officially an adult.  None of that matters in the free for all that is the gay club.

            One could say I’m a seasoned club goer.  I’ve spent many a night basking in the glow of disco balls, green lasers, and strobe lights.  On one particular night at club TigerHeat (doesn’t it just SCREAM “fabulousity”?), I found myself taking a rare break from dancing to venture to the upstairs balcony of the club.  The stairs in this particular venue are difficult to see in general, and the notion of the existence of gravity had since escaped my thoughts as I rushed forward towards the front of the balcony. 

Distracted by the usual visual over-stimulation typical to gay clubs (i.e. sweaty go-go dancers, disco balls, and music videos on giant plasma screens), I stumbled down not one, but three enormous steps that made up the amphitheatre seating.  Somehow I managed to damage both ankles on the way down, but landed on my ass and pretended that I intended to sit there all along.  My deep concern for looking cool quickly vanished as the incredible pain in my ankles began to set in.  For the first time in a while, I cried in public.  Fortunately the sounds of sobbing were drowned out by blaring music and it appeared as though I was sincerely touched by Gwen Stefani’s refusal to be a “Holla Back Girl”.

             As a result of the toppling event of my life, I woke up the next day unable to walk as my ankles were in excruciating pain and had swollen to sizes that would rival either of J. Lo’s butt cheeks (during which time they were lovingly dubbed ‘cankles’).  I had to either scoot around on my ass or be partially carried in order to accomplish any sort of movement.  X-rays showed that I hadn’t broken any bones but the doctor took that fine opportunity to tell me that bones did not, in fact, float in space as they appeared in x-rays, but were supported by ligaments. Wow.  I’m so glad I spent so much time in college majoring in biological anthropology to be told that my bones are not held in place by magical pixie dust.

            After diagnosing me with bilateral ankle sprains, the doctor pushed some hardcore drugs on me and I was handed a fine set of crutches.  I was also given the choice between wearing two gigantic snowboard boots on my feet, or some snazzy little lace-up ones that resembled boxing gloves.  After being laced up in my “booties” (coming soon to an H&M near you) and grasping my crutches, I attempted to stand up and leave, following behind my friend and business associate, Angel.  Not realizing that the sprain boots restricted my movement and that the crutches adjusted incorrectly for my height, I fell backward in slow-motion onto the examination table resulting in a laughing fit that paralyzed Angel (who left me struggling like a turtle on its back) and almost caused me to wet myself (sooooo close).

            In the end, I did eventually make it out of the doctor’s office but was forced with weeks of having to tell people that I sprained both ankles and couldn’t walk because I fell in a gay club.  Clearly I’m no grown-up, but instead of having scabby knees and Scooby-Doo band-aids, I have Vicodin, aesthetically offensive ankles braces and clumsy metal crutches.  The only thing grown-up about me now is the extent to which I damage myself.

¡Christine!