Murder on the Dancefloor

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This is WoogsWorld Reader, Melissa.

A while back I got a letter from a reader called Melissa. She is a busy mum of 2 small people, who after 2 years of being in a social vacuum, decided to go out dancing with her mates one night, only to end up breaking her ankle. She needed 6 weeks of doing that up there, which is difficult with kids I can only imagine.

Anyway, she wanted to know if she was not alone. and had anyone else ever fallen foul of a dance floor injury.

OF COURSE I HAVE!

It was my year 12 formal and it was such a big bloody deal. Mrs Gasgoine, the cheapest seamstress in the district, had run me up a sensible and totally un-sexy navy blue dress in a very questionable fabric. We had drinks prior to the big do with all the oldies before venturing to a club in North Sydney where the evening got a little nuts.

At the time I had a trim but dim, but lovely boyfriend who had bought a brand new shirt for the occasion. This shirt would later become my tourniquet.

Fuelled by a couple of champagnes, I started to dance. If you read yesterdays post, you will know that I was not rewarded with the gift of the dance. Oh, don’t get me wrong! In my head I am all sorts of amazing! I felt like I was not getting enough attention just on the regular dance floor, so I jumped up on a table and started shaking my thing.

The table had a group of people sitting on the end of it. In between them and me were a stack of glasses. So when they decided to move away from my spectacle, of course the table flipped, the glasses all smashed and I put my hand out to stop my fall.

Straight into the smashed glasses.

There was a lot of bloody, due to the fact that my pinky finger on my left hand was dangling precariously from the rest of my body.

New shirt became my bandage as an ambulance was called. I was whisked off to hospital. On arrival… and can you believe this…. THEY CUT OFF MY POLYESTER DRESS! Boyfriend was semi concerned and semi pissed off as he was missing the party. Parents were called. Oh it was shithouse, my friends.

I mean this was my FORMAL!

The next morning the surgeons re-united me with my finger. My dress came home with me a few days later, unceremoniously dumped onto a plastic bag.

20 something years later and I still carry the scars, both physically and emotionally. I mean every time I hear the song I’m Too Sexy,  am taken straight back to that time, that spilt second where I was dancing on a table in a dodgy nightclub without a care in the world. I have since learnt to be a cautious and responsible dance floor user.

Apart from that one time at Uberkates wedding, when the Divine Ms M and I decided to treat the guests to our rendition of “I’ve Had the time of my life…” Complete with the lift at the end.

But that is a story for another time.

Do you have a story to make Melissa feel better?