A few weeks ago, I was offered a not-so-friendly reminder about why crowded rooms are the absolute worst.

It remains to be seen whether or not my fellow anonymous club-goer was intentionally attempting to impale my foot with her five-inch heel or simply knocked into me after becoming overcome with excitement over the fact that “Closer” had just come on. Either way, in the moments following the incident, two thoughts immediately came to mind:

1) I really should’ve worn heels instead of flats and

2) Thank god I’m drunk.

Due to my usual lack of awareness about what is going on in the world until at least 10 a.m., the next morning I carried on with my day, which consisted of driving home to see my family and renew my almost-expired driver’s license. Though a mass of purples and blues mapped my foot, I recognized pretty quickly that I was probably fine. I could walk pretty easily- it just looked ugly. However, given my knowledge that I would be walking around for several hours the next day at the Homecoming tailgate, I may have been behaving a bit more dramatic than usual. It only took a few minutes for my dad to make the offer to take me to the doctor just to make sure everything was fine.

We waited for about two hours for a doctor to enter the room and proclaim that I should try not to walk too much and I could purchase a supposedly helpful but hideous $20 walking shoe if I wanted. I did not want. On the car ride home, not only did was I able to identify the fact that I could perhaps afford to take it down a few notches on the dramatic scale, but I also realized that there are few people who would’ve willingly subjected themselves to waiting for hours for a doctor to tell their daughter she was fine after an incident at the club. When she should’ve been doing work.

This is one of the more admirable traits my dad possesses. His ability to mask his likely-severe annoyance at certain things renders me surprised and impressed because I know that is something not many people achieve in a lifetime- I certainly cannot maintain a poker face during my times of distress.

My dad is known to be a workaholic to the point of psychosis. Every day, oftentimes even weekends, he works incessantly, from the early hours of the morning to late at night. I’m tired just looking at him, and it’s easy to throw out a comment every now and then about his long hours at the office. But then I consider when we are together, and even when we’re not, and the way he genuinely wants to know so thoroughly about my day and how I am doing and feeling; the way I know that if I say I’m not okay, he does not take it lightly and move on. It’s difficult to complain about someone’s absence when they are so fully present in the ways that matter.

I have been blessed enough to see the world because of my dad. It has never been lost on him the importance of experience, and he has not stopped sharing this wisdom with my entire family for as long as I can remember. Riding elephants in Thailand and painting their trunks in India, traversing through South Africa in a jeep on safari, lying on the beaches of Mauritius- every new perspective I gain and incredible sight I see is because of him.

I’m not sure he would remember this, but my dad and I had a sort of unspoken tradition of picking up our babysitter together every couple Saturday evenings several years back. Instead of talking, I remember vividly being introduced to music during these car rides, particularly the Dixie Chicks. “Landslide” was always my choice of tune, and I would sing along as he whistled (kind of annoyingly) loudly. That night, driving home from the doctor’s, as I struggled with my DJ duties, the similarity of the situations occurred to me (though it did strike me how ironic it was that I had outgrown the babysitter stage of my life, considering it would’ve been very useful the foot-incident night). The only difference? This time, it was Fifth Harmony we listened to.