I pride myself on my ability to wear gray sweatpants with a different shade of gray sweatshirt into the grocery store and not giving two licks about the cashiers giving me the "oh no she didn't" sneer.
I go to breakfast in a half pajama, half could-be-pajama outfit, complete with no make up and greasy hair without wondering for a second if I'm going to run into someone I know.
In other words, I don't normally care what others think about me.
But not Saturday.
Oh dear. I'm almost ashamed to confess.
But as I tend to keep nothing to myself, here is my story:
I was invited to a friend's birthday party. And as we are not turning seven the "party" was not balloons, clown, cake, then nap. It was dinner followed by drinking, followed by drinking, followed by drinking, followed by what could be called dancing.
Oh, the horror.
See, I'm not much of a boozer. My alcohol consumption for the entire year includes probably a pitcher of beer and bottle of wine. It's just not my thang. So, you can imagine my tolerance for the stuff is pret-ty low, which is why I gave myself a pint limit. And a 10:30pm bedtime.
Well, that went out the window by shot number one.
I can do just one shot. I mean, this is a birthday party and the thing is called Hawiian Punch. Completely harmless.
This lead to:
"Let's send Stacie home to Corey WASTED!!"
Which lead me to say:
"No, no, no, no, no. That's not necessary."
Which lead them to say:
"Drink this or you'll die!"
And I go:
"But I have so much to live for!"
And they say:
"Like what? You make felt balls and watch Matlock!"
And I'm like:
"You're right, but I really enjoy Matlock!"
And they go:
"It's hard not to...Ben Matlock is a courtroom genius!"
And I'm all like:
"Genius is taking it a little far...perhaps maybe he's just very insightful!"
Ok. So I exaggerate.
But I do normally feel bad when people buy me things meant for consumption and I'm just not in the mood. Corey bought me a Snickers bar last weekend after I'd already eaten my weight in candy, but I ate it anyway.
Bad example. But I think you get my drift.
So here is this second shot. Already poured. Already paid for. And a pair of puppy dog eyes behind it.
Ok, ok. Just this last one. Besides, it's the size of a thimble.
But with that I opened up a door to more booze thrown at me. Almost literally by the end of the night. Which came at 1:15am after two hours of dancing to music I've never heard of. Because I'm an old lady who watches Matlock movie marathons on Sunday afternoons instead of catching up on the latest in the industry.
Oh, and because I'm not too fond of the f-bomb.
Or the b-and-h bomb.
(please don't ask what that means...)
Lucky for me, and who knows how this happened, I married a man who will drag himself out of bed in zero degree weather with a cold looming to pick up his weak and not entirely sober wife and not point out the hypocrisy in her lectures on "going out" the occasional nights he chooses to watch a football game outside of their home.
The moral of the story: don't be like me. Just say no. Because when you're dragging your butt outta bed six hours later to be at church the next morning I can guarantee you will 1) feel like gross NYC street sludge, and 2) sit in that pew feeling the ominous pointer finger of God with each word of your pastor's sermon.
So, let's drink to bringing back pinatas, swimming pools and My Little Pony cakes for birthday parties!
Drink chai lattes, that is.