So I was given a bucketload of grief for not writing in the blog recently. It's not that nothing has happened, and I had nothing to write about, it's more that I have not had the time. Life happens when you're too busy blogging and raging at hapless call centre amoeba.
But here i find myself, clad in nightwear, full of a wholesome dinner I managed to whip up, seemingly effortlessly (that is if you don't count nearly tripping over the cat face first onto a hotplate, brandishing a knife helplessly while my freshly chopped carrots roll onto the floor, and a near burning of the entire dish because I was too busy playing Words With Friends and obsessing over how Fiji is not a acceptable word.)
So, dear reader, it has been a few days since my last blog entry. And boy do I have some experiences to share.
Last time I had written, it was a Friday morning, and the workday and weekend loomed large with possibilities. Until I remembered that it was our monthly work barbeque (read: Monthly Drink As Much As You Can until the stocked bar runs out, make small talk over the burnt sausages, and then gather the stragglers onwards to the nearest licensed premises for something 'just a touch' stronger.)
As far as I can remember, my NOvember sidekick and I have always used this bbq to curl up in a corner, chainsmoke and drink beer with ferocity akin to fat people and cupcakes. Hoarding beers like they could be taken away from us at any given moment.
This time, we sat morosely at my desk, picking at charcoaled snags and trying to fill the empty void by making jokes about how all a girl really needs is a sausage. It was a great big unspoken alcoholic elephant in the room. We needed beer. We needed beer to be with the crowd outside. Hell, we needed beer to be with ourselves.
We lasted about 25 minutes before one of us made a break for it. Scooping up my bag, sunnies and leftover sausage in one easy motion I bid farewell to my brave compatriate who was going to brave the alcoholic elements to get another sausage. I ran for the lifts and tried not to look at the happy and chattering corwd, each with some form of alcoholic drink in their hand. They made drinking seem fun. Was I looking at them through beer envy goggles? Probably. But that's neither here nor there.
Reaching the sanctuary of my house, I preceded to envelop myself in humdrum activities to wile away the hours. Chased the kittens around the house. Ordered groceries online. Made a mediocre dinner. Chatted with the Monster. Went to bed before midnight. Dreamt dreamless dreams.
When I awoke Saturday morning, I stretched and luxuriated in....what was it? Space? Clarity? Then I realised....I'm not hungover.
One of the first Saturdays in a very long time where I wasnt curled over with Imbiber's remorse, brushing kebab crumbs off my skirt. One of the first Saturday's where my wrist wasn't covered with wristbands and smeared inky blobs which take a bottle of bleach and a power sander to remove.
One of the first Saturdays where it didnt feel like there were dwarves mining for uranium in my frontal lobe. I felt fantastic.
THIS is what NOvember is about. Making the most of yourself, and your days, and your aspirations, and your capabilities. Instead of shrouding your potential with the smell of beer and 74 cigarettes, start off your day feeling the best you can. (Of course I could then go into the depressing fact that if the morning is the best you feel, then the day is nothing but a disappointment from there, but then I digress. It would also make me feel like shit. Well done, Lucky. Well played. Bitch. )
So on Saturday, I skipped about town, browsing for furniture, buying linen and manchester, having a wholesome lunch (at KFC, shhhhhhhh) and generally being what my NOvember partner in crime called "ridiculously domesticated". Life was good.
Until it came time to go to a friends Early Xmas Drinks gathering. *thunderbolts*
I dressed for this with all the enthusiasm of a fattie getting on the scales at her weekly Weight Watchers meeting. Until I rang the host, who said to get my ass there and eat all the cake. Cheered up immensely and wove my way down to the party. About 90% of Sydneys Twink scene was contained in one room, and, true to form, the strongest thing anyone was drinking was a noice Moscato from Marlborough, NZ. I reassured myself that if I was to break November it wouldnt be for something that was light on the palate with hints of peach and oak, pairing well with a salmon or pasta.
Here is a hint: If you want to get through a party where everyone is getting progressively gigglier with each sip of bubbles, darling, then do what I did: Park yourself in front of the nibbles tables, make people come and talk to you, and proceed to eat everything in sight. Scowl ferociously if any one dares to look your way, and growl softly if someone has the audacity to sample the food. This, interspersed with conversation about who in the room you would sleep with, and you find yourself almost having fun.
Being the social butterfly that I am, I was due at another party, a friends 35th. These drinks were either a celebration, or a commiseration - either way I was going. So off I left and wondered to the next venue, bolstered with the success of the previous party. Until I entered the venue and was greeted with, "Hi Lucky! Want a glass of champagne?"
I've never had really good will power from the get go. I have a highly addictive personality, interwoven with low self esteem, symptoms of manic depression, delusions of grandeur and a nice little narcissistic cherry on top. (Is it any wonder I drink? God, I'm surprised I'm not on the crackpipe. )
So for the next two hours, I watched as my friends downed shot after shot, and emptied flute after flute of champagne. I sought solace in my trusty orange juice, and drank everytime I felt awkward. Needless to say, the juice was gone in a few minutes.
Reading back, I realised that I'm making it sound as it I don;t enjoy my friends company, and I have to be drunk to have fun with them. I refute this completely - I will always enjoy the company of my friends, especially if it's on an even playing field. When the scales of Sobriety vs Inebriation begin tipping at a rapid pace, thats when I keenly begin to feel social retardation. Drunken retardation is a different story.
I stayed at the party for 2 hours or so, and then snuck out under the guise of tiredness. Walking home just before midnight, my senses were assaulted with the smell of alcohol and just pure drunkeness. I live in Kings Cross, and there about midnight is when every Cinderella worth their Blahnik rip offs turns into a pumpkin. Drunkeness is UGLY.
Especially when you're smugly sober and havent smeared your eye makeup.
I was home by 12, and in bed not long after. I slept a sleep so deep that not even the Monsters alarms and movements about the room woke me. In fact I didnt wake up until he shook me awake and kissed me goodbye before leaving for work. I had the whole day to myself. I felt great. I leapt out of bed and began planning the day. It was only 9.30am! I had so much time! What the hell was I going to do with myself?
(Please keep in mind I'm well aware of the fact that most work days (MOST) I wake up sans hangover. But the looming rain cloud of work means that I don't really have a day to myself, and can't do what I'd like. So really, its just like waking up with a hangover. Only I didnt have the fun of being blotto the night before.)
So for the second day in a row, I leapt out of bed, mind brimming over with the possibilities of what I could accomplish.
I could get used to this.
No comments:
Post a Comment