I Fought The Loo, And The Loo Won

The long black and grey band started right below my shoulder and stretched to my elbow. There was no way I'd be able to hide it, not when temperatures were soaring into the 90's and short sleeves were a must. Fortunately, my face had fared better and there was just a slight discoloration and puffiness around my right temple. It wasn't my upper body battle wounds that had me worried; instead it was the multicolored--black, yellow, purple, grey and red--bruise that covered my hip that would need some explaining. Sure, I could hide it beneath my gym clothes, but my inability to do the mandatory ITBS roll out in my Pilates class would not go unnoticed. I dreaded the fact that I would have to divulge that at my husband's Christmas office party at the Perth Zoo I decided to take on the porta-loo and, unfortunately the porta-loo won.
Mark claims the last glass of champers was the cause of my accident, not the fact that he was trying to guide me into the "correct" loo. If he had just let me go to the chem toilet on the left, I would have been fine. But, instead, he insisted that I was heading into men's room. (Years of experience have taught me that such amenities should be unisex, but there was no arguing with the boss). I'll admit he was trying to be helpful by opening the door for me and guiding me in. However, when the gentle nudge was combined with a urine covered floor it became an accident waiting to happen. In a matter of seconds I began to head towards the floor, but I managed to block my fall by jamming my right side against the urinal (so much for the "women's only" powder room).
The celebratory night's save, which kept me off the gruesome floor, had left my body covered with incriminating evidence, and I was soon going to have to share the story with my Pilates community. I knew the yarn would spread like a bushfire and that unless I wanted a bruised ego I would have to share my physical injuries with pride. Over the the course of the next week, as I listened to my story repeated 6 times, I sat on the sidelines smiling while my mates laughed at my misfortunes.
The following week, the smiles continued. However, this time it wasn't at the expense of my bruises. Instead, it was because on each of the three days that I attended Pilates, I walked away from class with the bottle of wine that was being offered as a door prized for the holiday season.
Mark swears that no one could be so lucky and that my winnings were fixed because my instructors think my story is false and that I--the battered wife--was in need of some holiday cheer. All I can say is--at least those with the luck of the Irish--in the end, Pilates really does pay off.