It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror the next day at what should have technically been a face that I realised exactly what had happened.
There were blotches of purple and blue that were definitely not there the day before. It looked like I’d had (bad) fillers in my bottom lip, with my right side much more swollen than my left. My shins were black, as were the inside of my hands.
“Gurl,” I groaned at myself.
I looked like Quasimodo but significantly less cute.
LISTEN: Is it time to get rid of the office Christmas party? Holly Wainwright, Mia Freedman and I discuss. Post continues below.
“Look, I’m Angelina Jolie,” I said to my sister, pointing at my inflated lips. She did not think it was even marginally funny, mostly because I had ruined my face at the work Christmas party for absolutely no reason.
And I was five days away from my 21st birthday party. Dammit.
It all started with the work Christmas party, held at some bar in the city. I worked at a golf club and this year’s theme was ‘Casino Royale’ which I’d spent the last month making fun of because I am both petty and ungrateful. We played cards of some sort. I don’t remember much, but I’m fairly certain I (definitely) cheated.
What I do remember is that we were given wrist bands for the free alcohol. I was 20. I was an idiot. But I knew that it was important to take full advantage of the free bar tab, even though it took me half a glass of champagne to qualify as drunk.
I don’t know how many drinks I had that night, but it might have been 500.
The night finished at some absurdly sensible time like 10pm, and a bunch of people decided to go out to ‘da club.
Da club was predictably underwhelming. We danced for a bit but dancing is always awkward because it’s like… where do you look? In people’s… eyes? Slightly to the right? Do you talk? Do you just move your body and pretend you’re not thinking many complex thoughts at the same time? If you think about the fact you’re dancing while you’re dancing everything is ruined and you have to go home.
So we headed home.
But this club had four flights of stairs, which is always a good idea when the intention of your venue is to ensure guests are drunk AF. And also when half your guests are wearing heels they can’t properly walk in because heels are a ridiculous and also impractical shoe.
It was the interaction of these two facts that led to what I now call ‘The Fall’. Like an 86-year-old refers to ‘The Fall’ they had in April, I too experienced an unforgettable fall.