Give me a dance floor and red bull and nobody is sexier
I’m one of those unfortunate souls who have the remarkable ability to remember, that which is best forgotten. Other people say things like “I don’t know how I got home”. It doesn’t matter how inebriated I am, how unable to co-ordinate my feet or control my tongue or negotiate corners – I can remember every humiliating moment in crushing detail as soon as I start to sober up. Four gin and tonics and one Dom Pedro later (the Dom Pedro definitely gave me the hoof) on Sunday and I was into a debate on religion versus reality with all the fervor of a self-declared genius. Give me a dance floor and red bull and nobody is sexier, give me gin and I become confrontational and aggressive and right! What I may have lacked in argument (somewhat slurred and occasionally illogical) I made up with volume and impassioned gesticulation (vaguely threatening) and I seem to recall my husband sidling past discreetly once or twice (also hoping to avoid a fight), asking me between clenched teeth to tone it down. Nevertheless I was convinced I was making a dent in the other person’s argument or I think “sway” was the word that came to mind. He remained calm throughout (with a few feeble attempts to change the subject which I skillfully swatted aside – by this time almost having a chat with myself), amazing that he bothered to maintain the conversation at all, what with me carrying on with all the disgusted self righteousness that gin can muster – note I say nothing of dignity.
Later the same night I relived each painful moment, sucking on my large bottle of water and trying to swallow my peanut butter sandwich with no saliva, my brain the size of a pea rattling in my skull. In younger years this tried and tested remedy was reserved for the morning after (whether because I partied longer, or I was just younger I’m not sure). Movement, light and noise are very painful at this stage and a combination may result in many happy hours renewing acquaintance with the bathroom tiles. Anyway, days have passed, and I have managed to write this now without blushing (although I still feel ridiculous) and the gin and tonic has been untouched in the fridge since then – my husband’s tongue-in-cheek offers to mix me a drink have been scorned. I am obviously too old for the “hair-of-the-dog” trick – if it ever worked (I think he just likes to watch me go green).