The unwanted visitor

It always arrives early in morning, typically on a Saturday or a Sunday but sometimes it even stops in on a weekday morning. It lingers, usually far too long, and generally has enough of a presence that my entire day is affected by it. Even if i close my eyes, it still stays around. Doesn't really get the sense that it is not wanted.

It's funny. It never used to come by so regularly. There was even a time in my life when I used to gloat that it never came around. I would wake up at the crack of dawn, smile on my face, annoyingly cheerful, and fresh. No unwanted visitors to wreak havoc on my life. Then..I got old.

I now can relate to why my housemates would miss their 2pm classes after a night out on the town. I used to think it was crazy that they would be couch ridden for the day, unable to move suddenly, or speak loudly.
My iron stomach has now become mush. I long for the days of yore.

It is not entirely my fault that things have changed, I haven't changed my indulging ways, but the proverbial hangover has definitely come on stronger in the past few years. I have now come to expect it. The moment I take a sip of a numbered dirty martini, I have accepted that my mind will no longer be mine the next morning, that my head will be playing a symphony of boisterous sounds and that my body will feel like it's rotting from the inside out, and then will hate me for heading straight to the golden arches in an attempt to cure the wretched feeling deep within the pit of my stomach.

Sometimes, I don't even make it out of the house. Sometimes, I lie like a fish out of water, flop around in agony trying to muster up the strength to be 'sweet' and 'cute' and send the man (who somehow still loves me) out, requesting a pit stop to pick up a cold gatorade and some advil. I used to be the one who would do the gatorade runs for others. I used to be the one who would pull back the hair of my friends (SWF) as they lay on the cold bathroom floor in a sarong, reaching for the sides of the bowl. I used to be the one who would make a big batch of soup to feed the bodies sprawled painfully on the couch downstairs. I used to attend every 8:30am class, and pay attention.

To this day, you won't find me hugging the porcelain bowl, but you WILL find me in sweatpants, oversized sweatshirts, makeup from the night before, and i will be peering at you through puffy bright red eyes. I remind myself of someone who would be profiled on Intervention, or something you might find at the side of the road, after having been hit by a truck. That sounds depressing, but the good news? It's only a phase.

I will NOT be accepting visits from this unwanted visitor past the age of maturity. Right now, it's hard to know when that particular age will arrive, but once this body decides to house a baby, you can be sure that i will change the locks on my door. I will wake up, open one eye, and then the other. The sun will not penetrate my brain and feel like it's burning my retina. I will open the blinds, spring out of bed and maybe even hum a soft tune, or sing along to easy listening on the radio. I will prepare a pot of coffee, and start my day vertically.

I will smile to myself, maybe chuckle a bit, and wonder who the unwanted visitor has decided to pay a  torturous visit to.

"Take it Easy, Chico'

Sunday Morning: 11:30am

My eyes flutter open … reluctantly.

There is an immediate and insistent pounding in my skull, and a sour taste in my mouth.

Hung. Over. Ugh.

I have to hand it to myself. Judging, by my PJ’s, I seemed fairly confident last night that I would make my early morning yoga class, and decided to save time by sleeping in my gym clothes. Too bad I forgot to wash my face (the trail of mascara on my pillow tells me that the previous night’s smoky eye has gone awry), and take out my hoop earrings. Oh, my bad. I remembered to take out the left one. Hot.

As I sit up and begin to stretch, I become aware of the blinking item clutched in my left hand.
It’s my cell phone – and I have a text message

Sunday February 28th at 10:54am
“FYI: I don’t feel good and I am awake.”

Instant relief!
This text comes to me courtesy of my best friend who is in the other room (and probably in an equally terrible outfit and streaky face), and not from my current crush saying something like: “Please stop texting me… forever”

As a dreamy image of him pops into my head, my feelings of relief dissipate and are placed with feelings of dread.

Did I?

I nervously scroll down into my sent mail. And there it is. The Drunk Text.
Sent: 3:25am
Recipient: Current Crush
Message: “Would also like to point out that I can spell APPARENTLY and I feel good about it. Take it easy chico”

I want to die.....Chico? No. I deserve to die. I don’t even bother looking at the prior text message I sent which obviously questioned my spelling of apparently. It’s too shameful.

Why is it that with every Dirty Martini I sling back on a Saturday night, my need to exercise my fingers while putting my reputation at risk intensifies?

Miss Munch summed it up perfectly in her blog entry. It’s all about that moment. The moment where all of a sudden your feelings of love / lust / anger / joy transform themselves into a sudden burst of creative energy which results in something brilliant like: “Take it easy chico.” It is in that moment while hearing your favourite song, or seeing an unattractive couple make out – that your true feelings emerge and you are compelled to share these emotions with the most important (and sometimes random) person your pathetic polluted self can drudge up.

Personally, I think it’s kind of flattering and endearing. And like Miss Munch, I love receiving drunk texts. (Drunk Dials? Heaven) Really, could anything be more validating than being the one person that someone is thinking about while they only have aprox 3 working brain cells? Come on!!!

I know for a fact that my personal drunken texts come from a place of honesty- and for the most part (though not on my birthday or any sort of “tequila” night) have some kind of meaning.
For example, I’m not being a fake and a phony by texting my ex something like: “I just have to thank you for being such a jerk and teaching me about myself. I hope your penis doesn’t fall off and you don’t go bald” Those would be malicious lies.

Instead, I channel my drunk texts into positive messages of love to my girlfriends (like the Saturday night convo Miss Munch has outlined below), or words of encouragement like “Take it Easy Chico”, to the guy I desperately want to lock down.
Is this so bad?

The answer is yes and no.
Yes, because it makes me look like a drunken asshole and probably does not aid in my quest to lockdown Mc Dreamy
No, because my friends know I am a drunken asshole and they love me anyways and hopefully after reading this, realize that if you receive a drunk text from me, it probably means I think pretty damn highly of you.

I know you are all dying to know if crush responded to my drunk text, and the answer is no.
I will admit to biting my nails for half the day until he called me that evening and we chatted with no mention of my embarrassing late night endeavors.

See? No harm done. Maybe he found it endearing. Maybe he found it cute? (doubtful)

This does not however, excuse what I have done, and I will do my best not to make texting the object of my affection (until he realizes he’s madly in love with me) a habit.

Instead, I plan to direct all drunken texts / emails/ phone calls to Miss Munch a Lot who “is my fave” and “makes my life a better one”
….. And whom I know will accept me for my drunken self with open arms, and respond with equally inebriated enthusiasm.