I. Am A Certified Dumb Butt.

Last night I went out “dancing” with my homie Katherine.  Because we have finally figured out Chicago nightlife, we didn’t leave until 11.  We got to the club at 12.  We left the club at 5 when the lights came up.  That way the orange line is up and running again after its evening nap, which means that I don’t have to take a 30 minute walk home from the red line.  Which is tight.

The reason I put dancing in quotation marks is simple.  I wore my highest heels (5 inches, yo!) and, too late, realized that my feet have grown since I last wore them (probably due to those 16 hour days of continuous standing while processing fish).  Bigger feet in same sized shoes = bigger pain.  Anywho, the bar had a these benches along the wall by the dance floor and Katherine and I pretty much sat off to the side and and only occasionally hit the dance floor.  We did a lot of chair dancing, which is goofy and fun.

I wish I could have taken pictures, but my beautiful $300 camera is broken.  Boo.

RIP, honeylens. I hope camera heaven is treating you well.

Now, there is another piece of technology that I own that is not the creme dela creme, like my beautiful camera was.  And that is my phone.

Of course it's not a smartphone.

My phone is not an exciting phone.  It does what it needs to do, which is phone calls and text messaging and it does that (pretty) well (most of the time).  I thought it was pretty when I got it, but that was before everyone had a smartphone.   That was also before I realized that it is a bad idea to keep your phone and keys in the same jacket pocket or compartment of a bag.  That was also before I dropped my phone on the street, on the sidewalk, into gravel, on hardwood floors, etc. etc. etc.

In other words, my phone is pretty dinged up and it wasn’t an expensive phone to begin with.  I paid $50 for it (which was a discounted price, for the record…they retail around $80 or $90, which is still cheap for a phone.)  I would say that if you tried to sell my phone as it it now you would be getting a good deal if someone offered you $20 for it.


Back to the club.

When Katherine and I arrive at the club, it is dead, and there is nary a coat check in sight.  However, many people have put their coats off to the corner on the stage, so I remove everything worth stealing from my coat pockets (money, id, transit card) and shove that in my bra.  The things that I did not think would be worth stealing, which also happen to be bulkier items (cheap ass cellphone, tube of mascara, keys…all clearly housekeys and not labeled with an address: stupid to steal), I left in the pockets, falsely assuming that no one would even bother to look through them.  After all, I was putting my jacket in the corner where it was dark and people have more pressing things on their minds in a club than rifling through other people’s pockets.

Yes.  I know.

I am a certified dumb butt.

Katherine and I dance the night away.  We drink some delicious drinks.  We sit on our little bench by the dance floor.  We dance.  We laugh.  We talk.  We sit.  I get two separate drinks spilled on me.  One of which was probably my fault even though it was not my drink.

And then the lights come up at 5 in the am and I give my phone number to the cute dude with dreads that I never got around to dancing with and then I go to look for my jacket and it’s gone.

My heart stops.  I’m an idiot.

My panic must have been obvious because a woman sees me and holds up my jacket, which she had probably been dancing on for the last hour, but I have nothing but appreciation for the fact that my jacket is intact.  I thank her and put it on and shove my hands casually into my pockets.

Which, of course, are empty.

My heart stops.  I’m an idiot.

Worse, I am a tipsy idiot who is at a club that is trying to close.  The lights are up and the bouncers are gently shooing everyone out the front door, and I am waddling around on my 5 inch heels, which feel like they are trying to eat my feet, looking for a set of keys amidst broken beer bottles and shattered glasses.

I turn back to the woman and ask her if she happened to see a set of keys when she picked up my coat.  She hadn’t, but she points me to a bouncer who pulled them out of his pocket like so much heavenly manna.  I thank him and turn to Katherine, ready to go, and feel the insides of my pockets once more…I could have sworn they had more stuff in them earlier in the evening…

My heart stops.  I am an idiot.

I turn back to the bouncer and, as politely as I can, ask him if he saw a cellphone anywhere.  Long story short, he hadn’t and eventually I was also shooed out of the club and into the street with the instructions of calling the next day to ask if my phone had been found.

I called this morning and left a message.  I think it’s gone.  I keep flip flopping between kicking myself for thinking that no one would steal my phone and mentally berating the idiot who stole it.  $20 is $20, though.  I wouldn’t have left a $20 bill in my pocket, so I shouldn’t have left a $20 cellphone there.

Also, I’m out a tube of mascara, which, as they say, is a tragedy in its own right.