I’m ashamed to say…it’s happened again people.
But let’s be honest, it’s not really that surprising, is it? Anyone who is like me and is partial to one, or ten shots (and not just of the tequila variety, we don’t discriminate here folks!) on a night out has found themselves in the position that I was in on Sunday morning. You know how it goes: beautiful early morning light filters softly in through the blinds. The sounds of chirping birds, happy families and frolicking children fill the crisp morning air. Freshly brewed coffee wafts down the hallway as your parents flick through the Sunday paper. And then there is you. Lying on the covers, not asleep but defs far from conscious, wearing your pj top on backwards and no pants. Lift up the doona and you’d find some crumbs from that ah-mazing cheese on toast you demolished at 3am, those pants you tried, and failed to put on, and the sneaky chicken fillets that gave you the confidence responsible for your current state. Still wearing all of your jewellery, you rub the mascara clumps out of your eyes, trying to determine if you are actually alive, but more importantly, the location of your phone. After a few moments of wallowing in your own pathetic existence, you can’t avoid it any longer. It’s the question that I myself almost never want to know the answer to…what the fuck happened last night?
I’d love to say that there are only a handful of times in my short life that I’ve suffered from post night out amnesia, but that would be a complete lie. The explanation for this, in one word: wine. There are a number of reasons why I find myself hesitant to piece together the previous night’s activities, but the three major ones would have to be: a) Who did I piss off? b) Who did I confess my undying love for? and c) Who saw the evidence of my disgrace? My problem, which I am always fully aware of but after 2 bottles of Sav Blanc seem to think I have perfectly under control, is that I can’t manage what comes out of my mouth when I’m sober, let alone when my inhibitions are at an all time low. On one particular occasion, after consuming more than a couple of rounds of everyone’s favourite drink special, 2 for 1 vodkas, I met, and fell in love with my soul mate. Only in the stark, unforgiving light of day did I discover he was twice my age, and most likely not the love of my life like I had thought. Come to think of it, there have been a few occasions when I’ve thought I’d snagged a potential bf from a late night hook up, only to never hear from them again. That’s probably because for most guys, loud, sloppy, and annoying aren’t adjectives used to describe potential gf material.
Another of my best party tricks would have to be the old falling over at the bar. Funnily enough, in my experience it seems bartenders are more likely to refuse you service when you fall over multiple times, and then request your sixth usual of the night. Who would’ve thought? I’ve also realised, thanks to those beautiful people who always manage to capture my finest moments on camera, that when I’m drunk, I sound exactly like how my mother talks after a glass and a half of Chardonnay. And that is NOT a good thing. In fact, in the nicest way possible, that is HORRIFIC! There have been times when I’ve adopted the policy that, because I don’t remember it, it never happened. There have also been times when I’ve wanted to hide my face under the covers with a bowl of Twisties and never show my face to society ever again. Then there’s been the times when I’ve desperately wished that I could remember, because I was on god damn fire, charming everyone with my rendition of Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’, and pulling one liners out of my ass I’ll never get to use again.
Not that I would call myself an expert in the field, but I think I might just be qualified to give myself some advice on how to avoid getting so white girl wasted that I think that I’m Elena Gilbert and all my friends are actually secret vampires. For me, it’s all about the pre drinking. Going out to town is like playing a game of netball; you’re not going to perform as well if you don’t have a proper warm up strategy! That said, my new motto from now on will be: quality over quantity. Real life examples: 2 glasses of bubbly, over 7 plastic cups of Golden Oak Fruity Lexia. 1 shot of tequila, over an unquantifiable swig of $25 vodka. And also, I should probably just get better at drinking games…I’ve never been very good with numbers.