Another 'Eve' Event

When I was at university, one of my friends used to describe ‘Eve Events' - these were times when I would fail at life so incredibly badly, its almost as if I wasn’t given the Instruction Book for Living or something (or maybe, knowing me, I just lost it)

On Saturday I had a typical Eve Event. It really shouldn’t have happened. I was going to my sisters friend party for a fun, chilled night. The theme was dressing up 70’s style but I talked myself out of it, mainly because the only 70’s type dress I had no longer looked great with my ever growing bulging belly. Instead I opted to wear a comfy bodysuit. I couldn’t go wrong, could I? The only issue was going to loo, but I figured I just wouldn’t drink too many vodkas and I’d be fine.

Anyway - the night went with a swing. I probably had a few more vodkas than I planned and soon hit the dance floor (much to the embarrassment of my daughter) Before long my bladder was complaining. I had to go to the loo. I was beginning to regret my outfit choice. The zip was on the back and ran from my neck to my bottom. Although I could get out, I needed help (or extraordinarily long arms) to get it back up again. My sister was posted outside the loo doors, on hand to help me back in.

And this was when the Eve Event happened. I had my wee fine. It was trying to get back into the bloody suit when everything went wrong. The zip was stuck, stubbornly at the base of my back. I tugged and tugged. I swore a bit. I pulled my sister into the tight cubicle and begged her to preform a miracle - alas she failed.

Outside, in the party area a chorus of “Happy Birthday to you” echoed through the venue, whilst I was clutching my boobs in place and desperately breathing in and my sister was yanking at the back of my outfit in desperation.

One woman stumbled in and found us in this crazy situation. She told us helpfully that we needed a ‘new zip’. She then attempted to yank me into place and failed. A third woman appeared. Soon I had four women, gripping the material on my back and trying desperately to sort me out. I then heard a ripping sound and begged them to stop.

“Bodysuits are a liability,” one woman told me.

She wasn’t wrong.

Soon I staggered out of the loos draped in my sisters long coat, pitifully aware that the top of my bum and my bra straps were exposed underneath. I prayed that there were no sudden gusts of wind and ordered another vodka. My daughter told me it was karma for dancing so badly in front of her.

I am going to burn the bodysuit and embrace my flabby belly next time. Dresses rule.