If you've never had a bloody foot on a date, then you haven't really lived.
The sequence of events? It all started innocent enough-dinner, drinks, good vibes- and then (completely incomprehensible) we went to Mad Hatter for a little dancing to end the night. Now, for any of you who have ventured into Mad Hatter on a Friday night, you know that creating a fire hazard is not something the owners are worried about. So my date and I squeeze past our fellow DC brethren and try to carve out our little inch of the dance floor. Just as things are getting groovy, I feel a STAKE come down on my toes. A flash of stiletto disappeared, and then I feel something sticky and wet under my foot. Suddenly, I see a veritable pool of blood spreading quickly out from my foot. For a moment I can't quite comprehend: am I actually bleeding on the dance floor? It was like a bad horror movie. I turn to my date and he becomes the definition of competent, leading us out of the hordes of people. As I walk, I see a trail of smeared blood in our wake.
Only one fact salvaged this night: the fact that my date was conveniently a doctor. This was his moment, his chance to shine in his element. Swift Bollywood action entailed: a cab, first aid kit, sober instructions, and follow-up procedures.
Moral of the Story: Blood on a first date is not an instant dealbreaker.
Corollary Moral: Trauma unites the human race. Embrace joint traumatic incidents.
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