Things always TURN.

It was a bright and sunny (non windy) day in Cape Town.  So one could easily imagine why this day was spent with a number of people cheering on a small rugby league at the rugby club on a fine Saturday. The sweet smell of cut grass and braaing meat filled the air. Cheers and chattering filled my ears like a dull hum. But unlike the skinny (but lovely) bitch next to me, I hated being there. Hated it. I paid my dues as I was there, as promised, in supporters gear complete with lumo headband and super short shorts. The grass was too fresh or the meat smelled too deliciious for me to enjoy it or something so like a dedicated mate that I was, once the game was over I left.

Like many people I convinced myself that all I wanted to do was “chill” , “relax” and for those in matric in 2006, “chillax”. What started out as an innocent (enough) game of 30 seconds turned into a bit of a death match complete with dignified ‘loser hats’ (my idea) which were skilfully made out of pick n pay bags and sticky tape. You see once there are a number of different bottles of wine and a number of different yet extremely similar girls stuff happens.

Soon there were whip cream moustaches and silly dares before the slightly intoxicated clan of girls decided that it would be a genius night to head out. Where did we go? Gay bar, because that’s what girls do when they want to go out and not talk to boys.

Problem1: The bartenders at said gay club are ripped and toned and are dancing in their briefs on the bar.

Problem 2: The bar tenders at said club cannot dance.

Problem 3: The bar tenders at said club cannot dance because they are straight.

(Note to self: not many straight men have a rhythmic bone in their body)

So you see… what started as a night of femaleness and independence soon ended up as a perverted yet funny account of girls imitating the pants less dancers on the bar. So we moved on to club two.. a straight one.

The party mood had taken over so completely that after we had a mini photo shoot and a few straw duels on the bar and after we crashed a batchelors and after we drank them dry and after we all had the  time of our lives that something would go wrong.

“Something”

Luckily (said extremely sarcastically) I would be the owner of that ‘something situation’.

So after the funness and the joy of being a young woman in all the ridiculousness that follows adolescence I had a three part stagger-trip-fall into the club.

It was quite an interesting trip, the kind of trip that could be rather entertaining in slow motion. My knees weren’t the only things torn open, nor was the beautiful dress that I was wearing. It was my dignity. My poor dignity was also torn and bleeding as I entered the club having my entire bum up to my middle back exposed. The worst part is I had no idea. None. So I continued as usual: dancing, running, chatting.

How long was I like this? I don’t know… that’s the worst part.  So after an unknown amount of time I was  noticed by a friends boyfriend and swiftly wrapped up in a table cloth. I wish he had told me what he was doing then I  wouldn't have fought him so hard. My bruised ego was easily mended by a juicy pity boerie roll that I ate like a sad child eats an ice cream.

Dignity? Hello? Where are you?

Sigh... I should have stayed at the rugby.