Girls' night out

The other night, I had my first girls' night out with two Israeli friends. The first pub we entered was cozy but too quiet for our taste. Didn't we deserve some action, some loud, funky music to make up for our new reality as stay-at-home moms with a student always on the run? After a few awkward moments, we decided to leave.

Back at the car, a Mazda MPV, I grabbed the outside door frame for hold while flinging myself onto the comfortable arm chair in the back. Then the driver's door smashed close and I heard myself shouting: "Open the door, open the door, my hand, my hand!" Seconds passed in which I could feel rubber sealing under my left middle finger and the completely closed metal door above it, squeezing the flesh at the top joint.

Finally, after a moment of slowly understanding the situation, my friend jerked open the door and jumped out of the car. I stared at my finger, hardly feeling any pain, stammering "It's not your fault, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gripped the frame, how stupid, how stupid!"

The door had cut deep into my finger, but luckily, we had parked close to a supermarket. My other friend was already running towards it, asking for ice and locating bandages. In the glaring neon light of the store, I stood shivering, on the brink of tears, assuring everybody I was alright, it only hurt a bit, it could have been worse. With a bandage and a plastic bag full of ice pressed on the wound, we returned to the car, all of us shaky and agreeing that after this, we definitely deserved a good pint of beer. Or two.

And so we moved on and I had one of the best beers I ever tasted. And another one thereafter. And by the time we went home, the ice had melted, the bleeding stopped, the pain subsided, and we decided we needed another girls' night out rather sooner than later.