It all started out very civilized, with white wine and scintillating conversation about the joy of owning really cute shoes and how hard it is to find a hairdresser who really knows how to cut good layers.
But at some point in the evening I think we started to believe we were still in university, 15 years younger than we actually are. And before we knew it, we'd polished off a couple bottles of wine, several pints of beer, several more glasses of wines, and a few mojitos just to spice things up.
The last hour (or two?) of the evening is a complete blur.
But at some point in the evening I think we started to believe we were still in university, 15 years younger than we actually are. And before we knew it, we'd polished off a couple bottles of wine, several pints of beer, several more glasses of wines, and a few mojitos just to spice things up.
The last hour (or two?) of the evening is a complete blur.
I don't remember getting home. I think there may have been a cab involved -- although I could have been piggy-backed home by a hunchback and still be none the wiser.
All I know is that when I woke up yesterday morning, there was a trail of clothing leading from the bathroom at the back of the house all the way to the door of my bedroom.
And I was still drunk.
All I know is that when I woke up yesterday morning, there was a trail of clothing leading from the bathroom at the back of the house all the way to the door of my bedroom.
And I was still drunk.
Staying home from work wasn't an option -- I had an article to write for the weekly newsletter, and its deadline was set in stone. So I somehow managed to stumble my way to the Skytrain and get to the office (only half an hour late). Then I did something I haven't done for YEARS -- I tried to soak up the remains of my alcohol buzz with a greasy, greasy breakfast from A&W.
And then I tried to write.
And then I tried to write.
Do you know hard it is to write coherently when your head feels like it's home to a swarm of angry bees?
When lunchtime rolled around, I decided to take a break from my drunken writer's block hell and clear my brain by taking part in the weekly yoga class I'd signed up for. (It's pretty sweet -- a yoga instructor actually comes to our office and does the class right there.)
Well. You know how they say that yoga helps rid your body of all the toxins and negative energy blockages in your body? After the previous night's debauchery, my body was apparently in serious need of some purging.
When lunchtime rolled around, I decided to take a break from my drunken writer's block hell and clear my brain by taking part in the weekly yoga class I'd signed up for. (It's pretty sweet -- a yoga instructor actually comes to our office and does the class right there.)
Well. You know how they say that yoga helps rid your body of all the toxins and negative energy blockages in your body? After the previous night's debauchery, my body was apparently in serious need of some purging.
Halfway through the class, in the middle of "downward-facing dog," the nausea surfaced with a vengeance. I was able to make it to the end of class -- barely -- but as soon as we'd all said "namaaste" to each other, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I stumbled as quickly as I could to the four-stall public bathroom -- and then gaped in horror as one of my coworkers insisted on coming into the bathroom WITH ME.
And so -- with no other options available to me -- I surrendered all dignity and puked up every last morsel of my greasy, greasy breakfast, as my coworker listened on in horror.
(The sound of a flushing toilet can only drown out so much...)
She was kind enough to offer me a cracker afterwards, which I declined. I didn't have the strength to tell her that I was a. not dying, b. the author of my own misery, and c. actually feeling better now that I no longer had a belly full of toxic fast food.
However, I'm pretty sure that when I return to work on Tuesday, fully half the women there are going to think I'm pregnant.
Nope, ladies. Not pregnant. Just stupid.
And so -- with no other options available to me -- I surrendered all dignity and puked up every last morsel of my greasy, greasy breakfast, as my coworker listened on in horror.
(The sound of a flushing toilet can only drown out so much...)
She was kind enough to offer me a cracker afterwards, which I declined. I didn't have the strength to tell her that I was a. not dying, b. the author of my own misery, and c. actually feeling better now that I no longer had a belly full of toxic fast food.
However, I'm pretty sure that when I return to work on Tuesday, fully half the women there are going to think I'm pregnant.
Nope, ladies. Not pregnant. Just stupid.
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