Back to life, back to reality. — The Social Experience
Today is the first full day back to work since December 24th. The office is full and bustling with a sense of urgency. All of the managers are in their offices behind closed doors with grumpy constipated looks on their faces. The work is piling high in my email inbox but I’m still trying to climb through the cobwebs of irresponsibility and it leaves me reading CNN instead of responding to coworkers. I think I’m suffering from Post Christmas Depression Syndrome. Now that the holidays are over and the week consists of five eight hour days and there is nothing to look forward to that will alleviate my work-load it leaves me sad and drowning in the chilly winter winds and seas of commuters and all of their angst. Moving out of this place seems like a distant dream.
Saturday I was drunk.
Adam and I had no plans to spend the evening out with friends. We sort of switched our afternoon plans for Sunday with Saturday and suddenly we were in the city running errands and having dinner with a couple of friends. We received a phone call from another couple of friends inviting us over to see their new apartment. Not a fancy gathering, just a few friends, casual. So after dinner it’s early yet and we decide to walk the thirty some blocks to help kill time and bar hop along the way. Well, we made it to one bar where I played a really poor game of darts and sucked down two cosmopolitans.
The four of us arrive at our friend’s apartment, take a quick tour, settle ourselves and make small talk. I’m pretty drunk but not so drunk that I can’t see the line between acting composed, and letting it all hang out. And then one of the hosts says how she’s found a new drink she loves and we must try it, Strawberry Stoli and tonic. Her boyfriend makes me a glassful and I take a drink and cough. “Is it too strong?” he asks. “Oh no, not at all.” I lie. And halfway through my drink I’m pretty numb. I spill the last of my drink on my friends lap and the floor and instantly I’m poured another one. I sit on the couch and drink my drink and slowly more people start to arrive and I sit and I chat and I’m drunk, drunker, and drunker still. I remember standing up from the couch, getting dizzy, and putting my drink on top of the fridge for later as I realized that I was drunk enough. And that’s about where my memory ends.
The rest of the night I remember in snapshots. Going into the hall to call my best friend who lives in DC, leaving some form of embarrassing voicemail on her answering machine about missing her terribly and how I was really drunk. I remember chasing someone into the bathroom and as they shut the door playfully in my face I turned around and knocked into a drawer full of makeup sending it tumbling to the floor in a mass of lipsticks and eye shadows. I remember people helping me pick it all up and how I felt terrible about it. I remember having a conversation with a friend about Star Trek. I remember being on the roof with friends, as they smoked cigarettes and I teased a friend by running to the ledge of the roof as he yelled “heatherheatherheatherheatherheather” while having a heart attack at the thought of me tumbling over. It’s the fastest I’ve ever heard my name called before and I mostly kept doing it so I could hear him say my name like that over and over again, apparently I found it very funny. He then called Adam to the roof to control my wicked ways and I laughed even harder about it.
I remember going downstairs again, talking to people, going back up to the roof with people, and then going back into the apartment where everyone had left. I then drunk dialed all of my friends asking where they all went and then had a conversation about art with a complete stranger, and then I went home.
Saturday was fun. Monday, not so much.