The 21-Year-Old In Me in Open Diary 2001-2018 (Pre-Prosebox)

Good God, you’d think I recently turned 21 instead of 34 lately. My drinking’s getting out of control again. I woke up this morning thinking something had died in my mouth, and I realized that I had chocolate at the corners of my mouth…Halloween candy that I’d snarfed when I got home last night! Yuk. The cat had been trying to wake me by smacking me in the face with a knee wrap (old war wound…ha) that he’d pulled out of the closet. Guess he was desperate for breakfast. I normally feed him around 5am. It was 9 already. This is the third Sunday in a row that I’ve awakened from an alcohol-induced coma. What is going on with me?

Two Sundays ago, I actually woke up with almost all of the clothes that I’d worn the night before—luckily I’d managed to take off my boots. I’m ashamed to say that I actually had to look out my bedroom window to check my parking spot to make sure I’d driven myself home! The bartender from the party I’d attended even called to make sure I made it home, but I never heard the phone ring. I think he was more worried about a lawsuit from letting me drink like a desperate sailor and then letting me get in my car than he was about me personally. I didn’t return the call the next day, and he wasn’t worried enough to call twice. Good. I flirted mercilessly with him (batting the eyelashes does wonders for a girl on a drinking binge). I do remember him following me into the bathroom at some point and kissing me. I do remember waving my credit card in front of his face, and I do remember him not letting me pay for a single drink. I do remember giving him a thank-you peck over the bar and giving him my number. Why don’t I remember driving myself home? And why the hell did I give him my number? See? Actions of a 21-year-old.

Last night I went to that dinner with Jeff, the new guy from work, and crew. He is just so damn cool. Still reeling in the thrill of him asking me to join him in the whole ordeal. He was entertaining a new high-profile hire who is moving here from Hollywood of all places. Guess he figured she and I would bond as we are both redheaded and tattooed. I am a little embarrassed because I got there a bit early and started drinking before anyone else showed up. The place where we had dinner has a great rooftop bar and the evening air was balmy and wonderful, so I hung out up there for a little while and drank a couple of Grey Goose and sodas while watching the handsome bouncer (I’m pretty sure that’s what he was—-well, whatever…he was incredibly gorgeous) out of the corner of my eye.

By the time everyone got there and we sat down to eat, I was feeling no pain. God, I hope I didn’t make a complete ass out of myself. Here’s what I remember: chatting with Paula (the new chick), reminiscing with Tiff, my old counterpart and telling whacked-out business trip stories, telling Jeff that I want to work on his team (!), drinking lots more, going back up to the rooftop bar, chatting with that incredibly gorgeous bouncer (!!), driving Jeff home in my dirty car. Eek. Everything about last night is kind of embarrassing now that I write it down. Damn.

I can’t believe I opened my big, fat mouth about wanting to work on Jeff’s team. But he was very receptive! He’s going to be overseas while I’m there, and wants to have further conversation about the whole thing over there!! The tricky thing about it is the fact that I would have to talk to my bitchy boss about it and get her blessing. That might be next to impossible. I’m going to try to feel her out on the first leg of this trip when it’s just the two of us. I swear if I can swing this in the right direction, good things may just happen! If I don’t do this carefully, I could blow it.

More plotting…

And packing. Still. I have a car service picking me up at 6:15 tomorrow morning! Yawn. I’m exhausted just thinking about the next two weeks. Doesn’t help that I have an apartment that I should be cleaning too! But what am I doing? Playing. Oh well.

Just like being 21 again!

Get this: I was at le Target yesterday shopping for goods that I’ve run out of and that I will need on my trip such as anti-wrinkle cream and anti-puffy-eye cream, etc. and the guy checking me out was looking at me while he was ringing up all the crap. I guess he felt sorry for me or something and asked, “How old are you? Like 25?” I told him that I was almost ten years older than his guess. His reply: “Wow! You look so young.”

Whatever!

It seems that all of a sudden my age has become a huge issue. I’m sure that it’s purely me making a huge issue out of it, but the frequency of age-asking (from others, including total strangers) is out of the normal range. It’s probably the fact that I keep meeting people that are now so much younger than me. That must be in direct relation to the frequency of bar hopping that I’m doing now.

Sad. I am obviously in need of a meaningful hobby. It’s just that by the time I finally leave work every night, the only thing that I want to do is drink!!! What’s really sad is the fact that I’ve screwed up my workout routine.

No workouts + drinking + dinners out + the grease I need to consume to cure my hangover the next day + not getting enough sleep = body torture.

My body hates me.

At least the 21-year-old in me is having fun!!

I’ll be back with stories from the road! Now it’s off to pack…