When I was four, they told me I was sixty. And as I grew up, the sixty remained constant. For the longest time, I imagined sixty to be this magical age when I'd finally be age-appropriate. But now that my dad and a lot of my friends' parents have already hit that milestone, I feel like sixty is too young for me. I wanna be seventy-five. I cannot wait to be seventy-five so that people of all ages finally get me.
Last weekend, I went out to celebrate my friend's birthday. The night was supposed to start at 10:30 pm, a time when I usually hit my deep sleep cycle in the comfort of my own home. Moreover, the party was at a popular night club, a place that was obviously too loud for me to fall asleep, even inside one it's toilet cubicles.
Don't get me wrong, I do love a good party. I love alcohol in most forms and have been known to mix spiced Carribean rum with my morning cup of black tea (seventy-five will be a GLORIOUS age). I'm a happy drunk - I tell my friends that I love them, I hug and kiss my husband every time I pass him, and I'm usually the last woman standing. But it's easy to be the last woman standing when the night starts at, say, 7 pm and ends by midnight.
Because when it comes to a party, I'm motherfucking Cinderella y'all.
An ideal party for me would always end at home. It could start with dinner, dancing and drinks outside but everyone would eventually make their way to somebody's happy little nest to sit on floors and kitchen counters while nursing tea or something stronger if they so wish. There could be light music playing in the background but nothing that would disrupt the flow of deep late-night conversations. The maximum number of people at this party would be nine, maybe ten - big enough for people to break off into smaller groups, and small enough for everyone to talk to everyone else or even gather in front of the TV to watch that funny scene from that 90's sitcom that everyone loves. No one would have to shout to be heard over the music or the other conversations, and no one would ever break into fits of coughs because of all the shouting. If someone's had a little too much to drink, they could rehydrate or even take a nap on their friend's couch before heading home. And speaking of home, everyone would be hydrated and in bed by 1 am, and as a result, get at least six straight hours of sleep before waking up the following Saturday or Sunday morning.
And between all this hydration and warm tea and light music and naps, I'm a wild sixty-year-old these days.
Last weekend though, purely because of my own life choices ie. SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS past midnight, I headed home at 3:30 in the morning and when I got there, I couldn't even recognise my own building. The cab driver stopped in front of the correct building and I was all, pffffft that's not where I live.
And he was all, that's exactly the building number you entered in the app.
And I was all, pffffft I know where I live, please keep driving.
So he did.
He drove to the end of my street where I asked him to STOP THE CAR! because I spotted my building.
I then got out, took one look at this new building and realised that I had to slowly walk back to the original building he'd stopped in front of. He could have never guessed that I was drunk.
When I entered our flat, Shane was cautiously amused by the state of me. For one, I was quickly undressing because IS THAT THE TIME? HOW WILL I GET MY SEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP NOW? But he was also praying that he wouldn't have to stand behind me and hold my hair as I lovingly shoved my face in the toilet. I'm proud to say that it never came to that but that's all I'm proud of from that night.
I got patchy sleep that night morning and woke up feeling like I would have to shove my head in the toilet after all. I wouldn't say I was hungover because I was definitely still drunk when I woke up and I demonstrated my unease with violent fits of lying around as Shane made me eggs on toast. I then slowly walked over to my friends' house right across the street to drink their tea and cuddle their adorable dog. I think I also watched Frozen on their couch in between violent fits of passing out while the movie played in the background.
I was finally home and in bed by 7 pm and didn't wake up until 7 am the following morning. Even then, close to 36 hours after my adventure began, I was a barely functioning human being. And if this is not what recovery from a night out looks at sixty, I don't know what is.
All this is to say that I've set two rules for myself now: 1) No clubbing if I can help it and 2) No more parties that start later than 8 pm.
Ooh and also 3) No parties that don't end in someone's home and 4) No parties that last past midnight and 5) no parties where I can't fall asleep on some couch at some point and 6) no parties where I can't hear my friends because we always have important things to whisper to each other after seven rum-and-cokes.
Man, seventy-five cannot come any sooner.