Wet n' Wild

You know when you have what you think is a great idea, and then later it turns out that the idea was actually pretty dumb? No? Really?

I was away on business, at a conference, with my coworkers. Said conference just happened to be in my hometown.  The hotel we were staying at who shall remain nameless (sounds like "Falliday Bin") had a hot tub and pool with waterslide (bonus!). Some of us (aka the fun ones) decided after a long day of sitting in training sessions, we'd hit the hot tub and relax. We'd already been poo-pooed the night before by hotel staff for wandering thru the halls with open liquor bottles. Over-starched hotel staff can be such Debbie Downers.

Ever the creative bunch, we decided to fill up some disposable coffee cups with our drink of choice (in my case, wine). After all, it is completely of the ordinary to see people drinking coffee in a hot tub.

So we're relaxing, drinking our "coffee" when the Falliday Bin pool boy comes over to us and thanks us for behaving ourselves. Mmmkay. To me, that sounded like a challenge. And it meant it was time to let loose. I would also like to note that this pool boy was many things, none of them being a boy or cute, and all of them being creepy.

We chugged our "coffees" and moved out of the hot tub and into the pool, where the temperature was somewhere between refreshing and hypothermia. No doubt so pool boy could see some nipples. Never one to be just a floater, I could hear the waterslide calling my name. Perhaps it was the effects of my second cup of "coffee."

I rallied the on-lookers, and got the crowd pumped for my slip n' slide. Not one to pay attention to warnings (exhibit A: my first marriage), I flung myself down the slide feet first, despite the obvious lack of gushing water.  Lack of gushing water can mean two things: #1) the baby is not ready to be born, or #2) you are heading down the waterslide at a slower speed than normal. Option #2 is good, because the ride lasts longer. 

At the end of the slide, I got ready to swim. Assuming like most sliders that the trough emptied into the deep end of the pool, I was posed for some doggy-paddlng, only for my left foot to be met by the distinct slap of a concrete step. Apparently, there is not a deep end at the bottom of the slide, but a rather large concrete step (which is a very weird place for a concrete step if I do say so myself).  Because of the lack of gushing water, I dropped off at the end of the slide, instead of shooting into the middle of the pool.

Once I resurfaced, I drank in the adoration of the spectators, I also drank in some chlorine. And then I cat-called, "I think I broke my foot." Never one to let pain interupt a good time, I ventured down the slide several more times before calling it a night.*

*Calling it a night meant grabbing some poutine (hey, I AM Canadian), playing a heated game of "Left Right Centre" and then catching a cab with my coworkers to the local bar/pool, to win the night's Karaoke prize. Note: we will forever be known as "Charlie's Angels" which is ok, because I've been known as a lot worse things.

Hey, what can I say? I've never been one to let a broken bone/heart/appendage stop me from having a good time. And it's not like I didn't seek medical attention. There was a very...er, short fireman/paramedic at the bar/pool hall who examined me. Yeah, I was a little skeptical at first too, like what are the odds? But he showed me his badge and everything. I didn't know paramedics even have a badge! But whatever. I was doing the responsible thing and getting checked out in between sets of "Help Me Rhonda" and "Bootylicious."

One of my coworkers (aka Charlie) stepped in because he heard me yelling "No! No!" and thought this guy was a sicko with a foot fetish. I assured Charlie, he was trying to touch my gimpy foot to see if it really was broken. The paramedic said, in his medical opinion, my foot was not broken. Just f**ked up. Which is quite the medical term.  So I limped and danced the rest of the night away to chants of "Go Gimpy, it's your birthday" which was weird because it was actually Charlie's birthday.

The next day I limped right into the Emergency Room. I felt like an idiot explaining to the doctor how I potentially broke my foot. Not as much of an idiot as when I once explained to a doctor about the time I broke my hand playing balloon volleyball against my cousin Anita (don't ask!). Turns out the fireman/paramedic was right. I didn't break my foot. But I did get a cool pair of crutches. And by cool, I mean, pain in the ass (and other places - it hurt to apply deodorant for a week).

I learned a valuable lesson on that business trip...if you want to win Karaoke, skip The Beach Boys. And once you "earn" the nickname Gimpy, it will stick forever.