Just a few weeks ago, I banged up my right arm while attempting to open my door. The weird part wasn't that I decided to cushion the blow...with my skull. It also wasn't the fact my left hand came out unscathed, because that was the hand holding my keys. It's also not that this injury came about because I decided the door did not, in fact, exist. No, the part I simply do not understand is...I'm right-handed. Why the hell was I trying to unlock the door with my left hand?
Anyhow, my most famous drunken fall occurred back in Bogota. I'd been glugging martinis at Pravda, the Russian bar, with a friend, a work contact, and my spouse at the time. We lucky four decided solid food was the better part of valor, and to go get dinner at the Italian joint next door.
We were going to have to wait for a table, so we arranged ourselves along the bar, requested a bottle of wine, emptied it, asked for another. At one point, I decided, etiquette be damned, to pour myself a fresh glass. I leaned over. At that exact moment, a waiter bumped my chair.
I fell. By which I mean, I somehow positioned myself so artfully that not only did it take me full minutes to hit Earth, my head collided with a marble floor. It hurt. And by "hurt," I mean the double vision spiraled into triple vision, angry gnomes did a spike-heeled tapdance in every corner of my mind, and...OK, just this once I'll admit that I'm out of metaphors. That's how much it hurt.
The sad part isn't the hangover I had the next day, though I will contend there are few experiences more singular than a high-altitude red wine hangover combined with an al dente bump on the noodle. The sad part wasn't that I stayed for dinner regardless, as you're supposed to stay awake after you bonk yourself on the head. (I had the veal.)
No, the sad part was the email I got from one of the previous evening's companions, mentioning that he had just gakked into a flowerbed at the Mormon Temple. After all my efforts, somebody out-jackassed me.