In the last 2 weeks a lot of shit has gone down: I had my first Emergency Room visit in 20 years, I got offered a job, and I planned and executed a cross country move. This is what happens when you think you can relax apparently.
We’ll start with the story about the ER trip, since it’s by far the worst and I would rather get it out of the way. We open the curtains to a fabulous dinner & drinks scene with my Halifax BFF Danielle; spinach and artichoke dip, Sex & the City worthy dress, stimulating and scandalous conversation, cute servers, and a total of 3 Cosmopolitans. Upon returning home I execute my normal post-alcohol routine: drink as many glasses of water as I had shots of alcohol, watch something on tv for a bit, hang up fancy dress, and go to bed slightly more sober. Cue 2am when, unfortunately, drinking that much water has the annoying consequence of having to get up and take a trip to the washroom. Normally this is totally fine, but apparently that third drink was one too many because I promptly passed out after washing my hands (even drunk, hygeine is a reflex). Since my bathroom is pretty small I apparently hit something on the way down, and managed to bite almost through my lip. By 3am I was in a cab on the way to the ER after a paniced call to my parents in BC, with a prayer that I wouldn’t need stitches or have a concussion. After a 5 hour wait in the ER, an ectocardiogram, some surgical glue, and fending off the question if I was possibly pregnant about 4 times they sent me home with no clue why this little blip happened. I’m officially referring to this incident as my "Last Straw with the East Coast," since two days later I got a job offer across the country and started planning a hasty exodus.