How I Got Kicked Out of Von Trapp’s for Being Clumsy

How I Got Kicked Out of Von Trapp’s for Being Clumsy
You know what’s more embarrassing than being kicked out of a bar for being fall-down drunk? Being kicked out of a bar for being sober but clumsy as shit. Last night I pratfalled my way to infamy at Von Trapp’s, a new German bar that recently opened in my neighborhood. I would have actually preferred to be as sloppily drunk as the staff thought I was — at least then I would have at best a fuzzy recollection of what happened. Unfortunately, I was stone cold sober and therefore will carry this facepalmy memory with me for roughly the next seven decades. After work, I met some industry colleagues at a bar in Pioneer Square for a happy hour beer (one pint of Blue Moon at about 5:30 or 6:00 pm). From there we headed over to Capitol Hill for our dinner reservation at Barrio, a trendy Mexican restaurant. I arrived at 7:30 and nursed a somewhat unpleasant-tasting margarita, throwing in the towel about 3/4th of the way in because somehow the drink managed to become both cloyingly sweet and butt-puckeringly bitter. Content to stick with water, I then focused on unhinging my jaw and inhaling a tostata appetizer, queso fundido, superhuman quantities of guacamole and salsa, and a shredded pork taco platter. The rest of the table at this point was at a ratio of at least four drinks to my 1.75, but since everything had been spread out over the course of four hours, nobody was wasted or hammered, least of all me. When dinner concluded, the group wanted to head to Von Trapp’s down the street and meet some of their coworkers there for a couple beers. Since my food baby felt stronger and healthier than ever, I had no desire whatsoever to add another drink to the Mexican fiesta cha cha-ing in my belly, but I was curious to check out the new bar since I’d read and heard a lot of hype about the place. I tagged along, figuring I’d sneak a quick peek before calling it a night and going home. The first thing I noticed about Von Trapp’s is that it is friggin’ huge. Like supermarket huge. It was also packed to the brim, extremely loud, and uncomfortably warm. We made our way to the bar and found the group of coworkers knocking back some beers. Someone offered to buy me a cold one but I politely declined, patting my food baby and saying I had no room for anything else. I had a quick chat with one of the guys from dinner before excusing myself to find the bathroom…AND HERE’S WHEN MY EVENING TURNED INTO THE MOST CLICHE SITCOM EVER. Since this place was so gigantic I’d have better luck stumbling into Switzerland and belting out “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” than finding the bathrooms, I asked the hostess (or waitress, or whatever) to point me in the right direction. She gave me instructions but because the place was dim and I was feeling disoriented from the combination of the noise, feeling overheated, and my Mexican food baby, I ended up walking to a section of tables to the right of the bathrooms instead. Realizing my error, I turned around, tripped, and fell. I think there may have been a ramp or something, which led to this equation: Sloped floor + booties with a small heel + my complete lack of any semblance of grace or balance = Becca fall down, go boom I sat in a heap, feeling embarrassed, when the same hostess or waitress noticed me and asked if I was okay. I sprang up and forced out an overly chipper, “YeahIjusttrippedsorry,” then...
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To the Stranger Who High-Fived Me During My Run

To the Stranger Who High-Fived Me During My Run
In an effort to get rid of my food baby, I went for a run “with” Jason last week (“with” meaning we left the house at the same time, then I promptly waved goodbye at his back as he shoomed away). I’m heavier and slower than my lean-yet-nightmarishly-tanned version from last summer, but I tried to stay positive as I set out to conquer the hilly 6.5 mile loop. My pace was slow but steady, and I settled into a decent groove, enjoying the crisp air that was warm enough to warrant running in a t-shirt, yet chilly enough so I wouldn’t overheat. I quickly zoned out into my “zen mode,” where I let the stresses of the day dissolve and let my thoughts wander to and from any number of topics. I used to run with my old iPod “Classic,” but after I left that bad boy on a plane, I got used to running without music and just let my inner monologue keep me company. I trudged on, totally zonked out, and soon approached the Pagliacci on 10th and Miller. I was staring straight ahead down the sidewalk and wiping some sweat off my nose when I noticed someone standing off to the side. I’m not sure if he was waiting for a bus or getting ready to cross the street, but when he saw me his face lit up and he shot his hand up in the air. Confused, I focused on him and my brain, thinking this guy knew me, searched its reserves for a name. Who is this dude? Is he a TN Multisports teammate? Have I worked with him? Brain: “Scanning for recognition…scanning…scanning…scanning…” Me: “…well? Do I know him?” Brain: “…scanning…” Me: “Ugh, brain, you are the worst.” Brain: “Don’t rush me! You’ve got a lot of useless shit in here. Do you really need to know the theme song to The Golden Girls?” Me: “I don’t need your judgment. And I will not thank you for being a friend right now because you’re seriously letting me down here. How the hell we got through college is beyond me.” Brain: “Whatever…anyway, yeahhhh, we don’t know this guy.” After finally establishing I did not know this man who was standing on the sidewalk with his hand outstretched, I hesitated, not exactly comprehending what he wanted from me. My eyes flickered up to his hand, which he held rigid, and he exclaimed, “You rock!” And then I realized that all this dude wanted was to high-five me because I was out running. I smiled, smacked his hand with mine, and shouted, “Thanks!” As I ran off, he called after me, “You’re doing great!” and I grinned all the way down the street. Of course, as I replayed the scene back in my head, my warm fuzzies gave way to intense neurotic shame as I remembered one crucial detail: I scratched my nose to wipe the sweat away, then I used that same hand to high-five him. OH CRAP, HE THINKS I PICKED MY NOSE AND THEN WIPED IT ON HIS HAND!!! HE IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED OFFERING ME THAT HIGH-FIVE, I KNOW IT I AM A DISGUSTING HUMAN BEING!!! I MUST SEQUESTER MYSELF IN MY HOME AND NEVER RUN OUTSIDE AGAIN OUT OF SHAMEEEEEEE And then I couldn’t stop thinking about this scene: So for the remainder of my run, my emotions alternated between feeling happy over a stranger’s random act of awesomeness and embarrassed by the potentially misunderstood nose itch. But ultimately, my happiness edged out over the shame (barely), so I wanted to author an open letter to the Guy Standing in Front of the...
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