I don’t embarrass easily. Considering I am willing to post all of my most horrifying stories on the internet for the entire world to see, that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone who is reading this (hi mom!). But this, the time I cut my face open during a make-out, was far and away one of the most shameful things ever to happen to me.
I had met this boy, and decided that I really liked him. As in, liked him enough to text him FIRST on Friday night and agree to leave my friends meet up with him and his friend at a random empty bar on the Lower East Side. In fairness, my willingness may have come more as a result of the 4 tequila shots I had taken at dinner than from the level of my crush, but either way by 12:30am I was teetering along Stanton St. in my most stripper-looking heels trying to figure out where the hell “whiskey pour house ale taproom” (or some generic bar name like that that I still don’t know) was.
When I finally found him, with my roommate (who after this night in particular deserved to be sainted) in tow, my crush and his friend were the only two people left in the bar and my drunkeness had leveled out somewhere between “super flirty” and “super sloppy.” And he was way, way cuter than I had remembered. We chatted and we laughed and I embarrassed myself repeatedly. You know the emoji cat with little hearts in her eyes? Yeah, that was me. I had suchhh a crush!! So naturally, I bullied him into taking more and more and MORE tequila shots with me. Things were going great! (I think….)
Finally, 47 drinks and a lot of bad jokes and incompetent flirting on my part later, it was time to go home. I don’t know how I did it, but somehow he found the beligerantly drunk, one-eyed texting version of me to be somewhat endearing and agreed to take me for pizza (I’m just now realizing he probably thought I wouldn’t be able to make it home on my own). After bragging about the fact that I was a vegetarian all night (… a thing that had been going on for two weeks that I thought made me sound chic), I got to the pizza counter and immediately ordered two pieces of chicken bacon ranch. Like people always say, you gotta keep em guessing!
When we got back to my apartment (alright, judge me.) I wolfed down my chicken bacon ranch (DON’T FORGET THE EXTRA RANCH!) right before his eyes, and somehow STILL managed to get him to make-out with me (not before I finished the pizza, though).
Earlier that morning I had just put up a set of brand new curtain rods (to hold my purple leopard print curtains, of course) above my bed and somehow, as soon as we started to make-out, one of said curtain rods fell out of the wall, and straight onto my face. (Apparently I’m not as good at carpentry as I thought? Hm.)
My cheek started gushing blood. So I, of course, started hysterically laughing (In embarrassment? Drunkeness? Mania?). The boy, who apparently has more appropriate reactions to human injury, started to panic. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed a box of frozen mac and cheese, and spent the next few hours icing my face with it. Thanks, dude!
The next morning, I woke up on Cloud 9, still feeling like a smitten little kitten. The crush was very, very real.
Much to my surprise and SERIOUS excitement, he had already texted me.
Him: Hey darlin hows your face?
…. beautiful? freaking obsessed with your face? I had no idea how to respond to that. He had called me “darlin,” though, so that ROCKED.
Me: Haha great! Why?
HIM Oh no, Zo. Go look in the mirror.
I BOLTED out of bed and ran into the bathroom, horrified. Even without my contacts, I could see the HUGE smear of blood across my left cheek. At least four inches across, bright red and DEEP.
Needless to say, I freaked out. As in, emitted actual screams at the sight of myself, and finally had the appropriate panicked/crying reaction that had luckily been avoided the night before.
At this point, I feel it is necessary to reiterate that this all happened during fashion week, my first fashion week working as a fashion assistant at a magazine, and this was the morning I was set to go to my very. first. fashion show. With all of my bosses, and just about everyone else in the industry. I showed up in obnoxiously oversized sunglasses (trés Anna Wintour), which my boss demanded I take off. The two of us were then faced with the awkward moment of deciding what looked worse: The huge sunglasses that made me look like a Hilton sister, or the streak of caked blood across my face.
But it wasn’t a total disaster:
That night, said boy came over and made me macaroni and cheese and apologize profusely for turning me into “damaged goods.” We dated until my wounds healed, and for a few months after that, too. All’s well that ends well, amiright?
And in case you were wondering? The gash didn’t scar.