You may be wondering why I’m sitting here with an ice pack pressed against my right cheek. The story naturally unfolds in New Jersey - the site of all things ridiculous. Yesterday, I found myself in Hoboken once again – this time to watch the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade and to participate in some local festivities. Jamie, Lauren, Sarah, Erin, Michelle and I met for brunch in NYC and following the worst.service.ever (Um, yeah, my bacon seems to be missing. --Me) and mandatory 20 percent tipping shenanigans, we hopped the 204 bus to the Garden State.
We met up with favorite Hobokenites, Johnny Wisconsin and Ryan, and proceeded to watch the kilted bagpipers and furry-hatted marching bands as they, well, paraded down the street just outside of the boys’ apartment. After the parade, we trekked across town (an interminable, cold mile!) to Tim & Tom’s abode, pit-stopping at other apartments and Ben & Jerry’s along the way. If you’ve never been to Hoboken for St. Patty’s, it’s very similar to game day in Gainesville, except everyone is wearing green instead of orange & blue -oh, and there's no football. We decided collectively that this type of “game day” was the only time we could experience said collegial revelry as a group, because of course Jamie and Sarah are UGA grads, Michelle went to Auburn, Lauren’s a Texas Longhorn and Erin and I went to Florida. On fall Saturdays, we can barely speak to one another.
So Tim & Tom’s party was chock full of interesting characters… from Damien with his portable breathalyzer to the guy who kept falling down in the backyard, we had a random time as per usual. Jamie, Sarah and Lauren peaced out early into the Tim/Tom fete, so we were down to three gals and two guys.
We left the party around 7 and headed back to the boys’ apartment. We stopped at an Irish pub where Erin, Michelle and I got into a huge brawl. The 3:2 girl to guy ratio does not make for good gal friendships, so someone had to be the third wheel. Like true Irish dames, we soon started throwing punches and furniture. The winners would get to date the fabulous Hoboken boys, and the loser would be left out in the cold. Erin picked up a barstool and decked me in the face, and that’s how I got my injury.
Ok, obviously, that last part didn’t happen. Everyone knows I would win in a fight. I’m actually somewhat embarrassed about how I came to be literally “broke in the face,” so I’ll just tell you selected readers here on the Internet. What’s one more humiliating confession among my 500 dearest friends and relatives?
Erin and Johnny Wisconsin decided to race each other down the street on the way home from the Tim/Tom bash. I was moseying along and likely to be left behind on the mean Jersey streets, so Michelle grabbed my hand and started running to catch up with the rest. I loathe running, so I protested as she speedily forged ahead, dragging me behind her. Just as we were hitting sprint speed, I smashed face-first into a parking meter.
I never saw it coming, so my face connected with the pole at full-tilt. Michelle was jerked backwards by the sheer force of the impact of my face slamming into the metal. I never let go of her hand as I reeled in shock, instinctively grabbing my cheek, feeling for blood and thinking that I had just obtained my second concussion in a year’s time. It is only by the grace of God that I had my head turned and received the impact on my jaw/cheek, and that I did not break my nose, get a huge black eye or lose my front teeth. (Aside: this is the second time in Erin's presence that I have been whacked in the face by a parking apparatus. Last time, it was the moveable parking garage arm-thing that hit me in the eye.)
I cried profusely for oh, the rest of the night, and iced my face back at Hotel Wisconsin. When I woke up this morning, I thought in Dane Cook style, “OUUUUUCH. What happened to my FACE?” And then I remembered -I fought the parking meter and the parking meter won. Seriously? SERIOUSLY!
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