I had passed my final portfolio, we had made up from our silly fight, so it was time to celebrate. This celebration included going out for Mexican. Our response to anything happening, ever, was to go out for Mexican. It seemed to us the appropriate response to 98/100 situations.
When you’re celebrating with Mexican, margaritas are a must. As is clearly evident in other stories, tequila has played an integral role in the development of our relationship. Here, she strikes again.
We had one, ONE drink each, ate our food and headed home for a night blissfully free of photography. We sat down on Drew’s couch (read: blankets spread out on the floor), turned on a movie, and had ourselves a Rolling Rock.
In good ol’ domesticated fashion, we decided to start a load of laundry down in the basement. Drew lived on the second floor of a backstreet apartment complex in Turners Falls. The stairs leading to the courtyard (and consequently, down another flight to the laundry room) were something straight out of a Hitchcock movie. Why do they call them “flights” of stairs, you ask? Read on, and you may find out. All that to say: these stairs were very steep. Drew’s mom had already discovered this, just with less blood and profanity.
So there we were, nestled on our couch/floor, enjoying our lack of agenda, when the time came to change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Not usually a dangerous activity, right? Cue the disastrous culmination of events, in which we find out that tattoos, margaritas and laundry do not mix well.
I exited the door first. Drew followed close behind.
“Huh.” I said, turing back slightly, “I feel like I’m walking funny.”
My foot was freshly tattooed, of course I was walking funny. The words had barely left my mouth when it happened. To this day, I’m not entirely sure what it was, but it sent me flying majestically through the air and ended with me on my butt at the bottom of the stairs.
Cursing like a sailor, I sat up, dusted myself off, and assessed the damage. Two skinned knees and a seriously bruised ego… not bad. I stood up and continued down the next flight of stairs.
“Tash. You’re bleeding all over.”
I paused. Maybe my foot did feel a little funny. You know, funnier than it should feel after it’s been shot full of tiny ink pockets.
I reversed course, sat down roughly on the concrete, and turned my foot over. I am far from being squeamish, but this sight, accompanied by the sensation of two of my toes being partially severed, nearly made me lose my lunch.
Like a hero, Drew promptly stuffed a wad of paper towels onto my foot, scooped me up, deposited me into his car and rushed me to the hospital. I was taken directly into a room and visited by various poking, prodding professionals.
When the doctor arrived at last, he took one look at my foot and exclaimed “Ooh. Wow.”
I won’t get into the gory details, but a couple shots and 6 stitches later (3 on the underside of each toe), me and my Franken-foot were ready to rocket (or hobble feebly) home. Needless to say, Drew was there by my side, holding my hand through the whole ordeal. Granted, he kept things lively by telling me stories of the terrible foot injuries he, his brothers and his friends had all sustained over the years. He also provided some truly fabulous needle-related horror stories. Ironically, they all seemed to help.
Somewhere along the way, I began to realize that no matter what happened, as long as he was there by my side, I’d be okay.
Graduation! Meeting the parents! An epic 3,000 mile road trip! Don't worry, there's lot's more excitement to come.