“Forever’s gonna start tonight!” And the hangover’s gonna start tomorrow.
There’s a direct correlation between how loud I sing (scream, if we’re being honest) “Total Eclipse of the Heart” into whatever microphone-like object I find at the bar and how crappy I’m going to feel the next morning:
Singing pitch-perfect = Feeling pitch-perfect*
Using twisty straw as earpiece microphone = Bitchin’ headache
Turning around at “Turn around, bright eyes” = Head in plate of greasy food
Wildly flailing arms, “giving off sparks” = Head in toilet
Standing on the bar doing all of the above = All of the above
* You must be talking about someone else
Yet somehow, for some reason (Vodka shots. It’s vodka shots, dummy.) I do this EVERY. TIME. And pay for it so dearly the next day.
Before kids, I could sleep it off, down a pot of coffee, and slide burgers down the hatch until I felt like a human, usually by 10 pm the following day.
With kids, I’m forced out of bed just as the beer buzz wears off and the hangover sets in. This happens at precisely 5:54 am, the exact moment my two-year-old son bangs the railings on his crib and my newborn daughter decides she’s STARVING.
Though I normally work full-time in an office, I’ve been home with my children half of the summer. Seven of the longest, sweetest weeks of my life. I’ve enjoyed playing with the kids, hearing my French-American son master more words in English, and strolling around the lovely urine-saturated city of Paris.
But it’s also been a load of work. Days blur together into hazy, sleep-deprived, pseudo memories.
I do remember last Friday, though. That never ending day was the result of combining my passion for Bonnie Tyler and booze with the fact that, doh, I still have kids to care for in the morning. I partied way too late and got up way too early.
Ohmygod. Five beers? You’re not in college anymore.
Pounding headache. “Mama! Garbage truck! Mama!!!!!!!!” My son wanted me to play with all 42 of his garbage trucks.
Don’t forget that shot of Stoli, playa. What were you thinking?
Rumbling stomach. I’d be revisiting last night’s mistake. “Mama! Caca! Mama!!!!!” My son provided play-by-play commentary as I inelegantly ejected the contents of my tummy. “Bye-bye, caca!” he said as I flushed.
One year without drinking and the minute you’re out on the town it’s balls-to-the-wall, drink-it-all. Tsk, tsk.
I needed some air. I took the kids on the world’s longest walk (around the block) under the summer’s hottest sun (a balmy 82 turned into 110 with the newborn in the baby carrier and, hello, did I mention my hangover?)
I will NEVER do this again.
I waited in the world’s longest line for a sandwich (one dude in front of me) and ate it painstakingly slowly, so as not to vomit on my baby’s head as she innocently slept against my chest.
No, seriously. I will NEVER drink this much again. Especially not when I have to take care of my two little angels the next day.
Naptime finally arrived. The three of us slept like rocks.
When we woke up, it was time to play with garbage trucks and feed the baby all over again. But this time I had returned to about 90% capacity. The light shone from the end of a dizzying tunnel. I’d survived.
“Every now and then I get a little bit restless and I dream of something wild.”
Let’s be honest. We all know I’ll do it again. Who’s free Friday night?