My foot hit the perfectly manicured lawn, and my heel immediately dug into the fresh, wet soil. I felt my body falling forward and there was nothing I could do to stop myself from falling on my...

Face. Dammit!

The feeling of cold soil smearing across the side of my cheek was actually a welcome relief to the feeling of nauseating embarrassment that had been surging through me in waves since I'd run from the room. Run away from all of those eyes. Judging eyes, appalled eyes and worst of all, amused ones. The shock and horror I could (almost) handle—I could certainly understand it—however, it was the amused looks that made me feel the worst.

But clearly, my speedy getaway wasn't exactly going as planned.I crawled onto my hands and knees, trying to pull my shoe free, but it was in too deep. I slipped my foot out of the shoe and took my other one off too, cursing the fact that I'd departed from my usual flats in the first place. I stood up and I looked back at the building to make sure that no one had witnessed my fall, only, they had. My stomach plummeted when I saw some familiar eyes staring at me from behind the glass.

I turned as quickly as possible and continued my now shoeless escape. I ran across the lawn to where my rental car was parked.

I needed to get out of here.

I found my tiny red Kia sandwiched between a huge, shiny Lexus with a number plate that read "DIVORCED" and a Porsche 911 with a number plate that read "THE BOSS." Had I been myself, I would have rolled my eyes and made a note to write an article about what personalized number plates really said about you. But I wasn't myself. My little Kia and I needed out of there... and if I were to choose a license plate right now, it would have to have been FML.

I put my shoes on the bonnet of the car and frantically dug through my handbag for the set of unfamiliar car keys, but couldn't find them.

Shit! Please, please, please don't let me have left them back inside. I begged and pleaded with whatever benevolent force was out there—someone, anyone—although I seriously doubted benevolent forces were listening to me tonight. Oh no! 'Twas the night of dark, malevolent forces. 'Twas the night that hell cracked open and sucked me into its fiery, flaming pits. 'Twas messed up AF!

Without thinking it through, I tipped the contents of my handbag onto the bonnet of the car, and everything, including my shoes, slid languidly down the curved bonnet and bounced to the floor below like dropped marbles.

"Fuck it!" I cursed again and dropped to my hands and knees, trying to reclaim the contents of my bag. But the stuff had spread so far and wide that it would have taken me ages to get it all. So I prioritized; wallet, make-up bag, tampons and shoes... Wait, where the hell was my other shoe?

I scanned the floor. Good news, I could now see the car keys. Bad news, I had to flatten myself like a pancake and slither under the car to retrieve them, scraping my body on the rough, gravel as I went. I looked around one last time for my other shoe, but when I realized that it was truly nowhere to be seen, I climbed into the car as fast as I could and turned the engine on. I would love to say that the beast roared to lifewith a sense of urgency, but it didn't. It kind of flickered on like a little one watt light bulb.

I tossed my shoe over my shoulder and heard it thud against the backseat, and that's when I felt the first punch in my stomach and tightening in my throat. No! I willed it away as hard as I could and started reversing, but as soon as I did...

"Shit!"

DIVORCED had parked so close to me that I was barely able to inch my way back. I ground the car into first, I hadn't driven a manual in years. I swung the steering wheel as hard and far as I could—no power steering either—and started inching forward.

"Double shit!"

THE BOSS was also too close. I stared back at the restaurant. I had three options: One, go back inside and find out whose cars these were and ask them to move, not going to happen; two, I could abandon the car here, catch an Uber and come back for it in the morning; or three, I could somehow yoga move my way out of this.

And so I did. I began the tiring near ten-point turn that I was forced to make in order to extricate myself from the clutches of these cars. I was finally almost out, and maybe it was because I was so desperate to go and so excited that I almost was free, that I collided with it.

The sound of my little car scraping against DIVORCED's rear bumper was ear-splitting and made teeth tingle, as if I'd just bitten into an unripe banana.

"No! NO! No!" I looked around to see if anyone had seen me—they had!

I begun swinging the steering wheel again as DIVORCED came running out of the restaurant and started darting across the lawn. Shit,she was fast! Being DIVORCED clearly gave her lots of time for things like CrossFit. I saw another figure emerge from the restaurant and start running—it was Matt! I had to get out of here. Suddenly, a third figure emerged, I surmised it was THE BOSS, since I'd just hit his car too. They all dashed towards me and were nearly upon me when I finally managed to maneuver myself free. I pressed my foot down on the pedal so hard that the wheels spun and gravel flicked, and then I flew out of the parking space.

I raced away as fast at the pathetic one liter engine could take me.Down the long gravel driveway and back onto the main road. There was a loud buzzing sound in my ears, a terrible metallic taste in my mouth, my fingers were tingling and my mind and heart were racing. Not only had I embarrassed myself in front of what felt like the entire world, but now I had also just committed a hit and run. I was a criminal!

That feeling struck again. The punch in my stomach and tightening in my throat.

I swung my steering wheel again, veering off the road. I slammed on the brakes, put on the hazard lights and burst into tears.

DIARY ENTRY

20 Feb.

Dear Diary,

So, as it turns out, the A-Spot is much easier to find than my neighborand I'm seriously starting to consider the fact that I may have hallucinated the entire thing. My friends all seem skeptical too and aresuggesting some kind of vodka-induced hallucination. This, of course,raises serious questions about my general mental wellbeing as a whole—or my previously held beliefs in my ability to hold my drink. I'm leaning more towards the fact that it DID actually happen, just because I have no history of hallucinations and I'm half-Russian; my grandmother gave me vodka shots to cure a cold once.

Anyway, A-Spot article is really "revolutionary" says new editor. A real "eye-opener, or leg-opener" if you will. New Woman online magazine has just employed a new editor named Davida, pronounced Dah Vee Daaaarrrrr (roll the R). She seems nice, but you know what it's like, these types can turn so quickly—like milk left on the counter overnight.

She wants another article from me asap, still trying to decide what it should be:

1. How To Get Abs In Ten Days. (Not likely, but readers like abs, especially at the beginning of the year when we're still all encased in that layer of Christmas blubber.)2. Ten Things Men Wish Their Women Knew About Going Down On Them. (Have no idea what those are yet, make note to research. But suspect one is, "don't use teeth.")3. Ten Ways To Tell He Likes You. (Why do these things always come in tens, let's try sevens next time. Quicker. Less thinking.)

More later...

20 Feb. (later that day)

As it turns out I am not mad and hallucinating and I can hold my drink. Matt (that's his name btw) is very real. In fact, Matt, has been away on business this entire time. Because Matt is an actual adult with a real job—unlike myself. Matt, as it turns out, is a Quantitate Analyst. Of courseI have no idea what that means, but nodded my head and made a note to Google it later.

(Googled: A quantitative analyst is a person who specializes in the application of mathematical and statistical methods—such as numerical or quantitative techniques—to financial and risk management problems.)

Okay. Now I really don't know what it means. But Matt is also rather confusing. Very.

He claims to only vaguely remember meeting me in the lift and no mention of the kiss. At all. He's not even acting awkwardly around me. I'm not sure if I should be offended. No. Of course, I'm offended that he doesn't remember that kiss. But things are still looking promising, because he did invite me to his house-warming party. Mind you, there's still a possibility that Matt might turn out to be very boring. Very, quantitative-number-crunching boring. He could also be a total asshole. Men that look like he does often are. I've always noted that the hotter the man, the less developed his personality can be.

Anyhoo... I've decided to do the article on Ten Ways To Tell If He Likes You since it will be very beneficial to know these things moving forward. So far this is the list:

1. He initiates conversation.2. He listens and remembers what you say.3. He leans forward when you talk.4. He makes direct eye contact and smiles.5. He compliments your appearance.6. He teases you playfully. (This one reminds me of school days, when a boy would throw a ball at your head or snap your bra strap to convey his feelings. Maybe men really don't change that much.)

I shall look out for these signs at the house warming.

More soon...