...is all fun and games until someone falls off her heels and tears a ligament in her foot. I know that's not actually how the slogan goes but YOU GET MY POINT.
It's not a particularly exciting installment in the (ongoing, endless) saga of Times Amy Fell Down, chapter four thousand and twelve. We were on our way to dinner and I tripped. I didn't even trip ON anything, like faux quainty cobblestone or a pile of money. There were no stairs. We were walking on nice, even carpet. I was completely sober. I simply cannot manage to walk and talk at the same time anymore, and down I randomly went, twisting my ankle all to bloody hell and taking my dainty wounded pride with it.
The restaurant hostess was kind enough to vacuum seal some ice in what appeared to be a sous vide bag and I balanced that on my foot during dinner, because nothing was going to stand in my way of stuffing my damn foodhole.
And thus fulfills my life-long dream of meeting Joël Robuchon, winner of ALL TEH MICHELIN STARS, while gritting my teeth in pain because my ice pack has fallen off. Bonus points for being barefoot at the time.
After dinner, my foot had swollen up to an alarming size and was many shades of delicious purply bruise. I couldn't walk on it at all, though I did try because EMBARRASSING. Jason helped me hobble a few feet before security noticed the barefoot girl quietly and involuntarily sobbing and intervened. They gave me a wheelchair and I promised them that I would not sue them, I swear, the fall was the result of my own legendary dumbassity and nothing more. I sat at a kitty-cat themed slot machine and signed an incident report and then tried to tell jokes to my security escort/wheelchair pusher the whole way back our room for some reason. Like I needed him to think I was cool, because suuuuure.
Later, after elevating and icing my foot failed to bring down the swelling or the pain, I spent five hours at a Las Vegas emergency room and that was...well, that was pretty sobering and not at all funny. It was understaffed and overcrowded and the man next to me spent two hours rocking back and forth, picking at face scabs and trying to convince the nurse practioner that he "lost" the pain medicines he'd just been given at a different hospital. He did not seem to be alone in this particular complaint.
(Around hour four of our wait a nurse offered me an pain pill and I accepted it, but I tried not to seem too jazzed about it.)
The whole experience gets a zero stars, would not recommend. We got back to our hotel around 4:30 a.m., so I'm now at a level of jet lag/time zone confusion that I never thought was possible. I can see through space and time and clocks no longer exist. It's pretty trippy. Also maybe I need a nap.
But hey! I did not break my foot, just like all the other times I did not break my foot. I tore a ligament, which is the dramatic way to say "it's just a really bad sprain." I get to spend the rest of my vacation on crutches and an air cast, doing...I don't know. Figuring out how to not walk all that much. Sitting down whenever possible. Finding restaurants that are not buffets.
Wild and crazy times in Vegas, man. Wild and crazzzzy times.