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When I think back on my mid twenties, I remember being bitchy, overworked, and totally disillusioned. The hope and optimism I had coming out of college was bitch-slapped out of me after my first feeble attempt at moving to the city and trying to find a job, and certainly didn’t return after a stint of teaching (i.e. “giving back”) or in corporate education (i.e. “giving back + $$”) or in an urban school district (i.e. “if the kids don’t shoot you, the superintendent will make you shoot yourself”). But it wasn’t all dark and dismal. Ok, it was, but add to dark and dismal a few martinis, and I could be the life of the party. I was the gal co-workers could rely on for shit-talking and long lunches, the chick that had no problem discussing how she would fuck the VP of Finance during company meetings, the first lady of blacking out and doing karaoke at company functions. Sure, when I was alone, I was terribly depressed and anxious all the time, but all that could be channeled into creating this borderline self-destructive persona that was fun and liked.
But then it got old, and I got a therapist. In what could be described as my late-mid-twenties, I embarked on a personal development journey to destination: happiness. I started therapy; I worked out more; I cut back on hours at work; I applied to grad school; I wrote more. I learned a lot about myself during this time, like why I hated men and how to anticipate my intoxicated anxiety attacks and subsequent breakdowns. The sublime tension between my old self and my new recognition was fuel for much of the work I did.
Currently, my personal development cruise ship is docked as I approach my 29th birthday. The voyage isn’t over, but I’m trying to test out being on solid ground. I wrapped up therapy, finished grad school, added yoga to my workout ritual, and tried to start a business with my husband. I am happy, I am calm, I am . . . vacant. When catching up with friends, I have nothing to say. I just smile absently and say things are good. I have nothing to write about. Nothing pisses me off. What is there to talk about when you work from home and get to workout midday and eat well and sleep in. Fucking nothing, for weeks at a time. I know, boo-hoo, poor me. But the thing is I’m afraid that my bitchiness and anger was my life force, and now that it’s gone I am an empty shell, a well-balance, peaceful empty shell. For me, there is an inverse relationship between happiness and productivity.
What is wrong with the hubby moving the flatscreen into the bedroom, then curling in bed, watching four movies, and ordering pizza? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Whilst I have been trying to cut down on my binge drinking, every now and again overindulgence just sneaks up on me. This usually happens when I start drinking early (like Friday afternoon happy hour), don’t eat, “pace myself” on martinis for 5 hours, and wake up the next morning having no idea what happened. Things like touching someone’s balls at a networking event or hitting on the (straight) woman I’m out dancing with can happen on such nights. But the blackout and bad behavior makes sense mathematically in these cases and can even be predicted, as in x number of drinks * y number of hours out/food intake= % of blackout.
Which is why this weekend I was so amazed at my ability to defy the odds and blackout in a record 2 hours! Further surprise is that I did it for under $50. This is unprecedented, but worth figuring out just for the sheer cost savings. So here are the circumstances of the night; further experimenting will need to be conducted in order to determine true causal relationships.
1. Start the night dehydrated.
2. Eat, but not too much. This will lead you to believe you will be ok, even when that’s not the case.
3. Go out late. Getting started at 11pm is just the catalyst you need to drink faster than you otherwise would.
4. Don’t say no to shots. Feel free to mix liquors as well.
I would provide more, but I don’t remember much after that. While blacking out is never fun, the two-hour sprint binge actually results in less spending, milder hangovers, and a shorter window of time to embarrass yourself in. This might be my new drinking plan of choice.
