Monday, November 22, 2010
Ode to My Apartment, Part 3
When I turned 28, I remember thinking I was getting old. Almost 30. I was single, unhappy in my job and in much need of a wild night out with girlfriends. So I wrangled about half a dozen of them and we headed out to Hollywood's Beauty Bar for an evening of martinis and manicures.
The problem with this idea was that I wasn't a martini drinker.
The bar offers a variety of fruity doozies disguised as martinis. They go down like liquid Jolly Ranchers. I remember I had a bad farmer's sunburn from hiking that morning, and the martinis took the sting off in no time.
Not being a martini drinker, I didn't know that it wasn't a smart idea to consume them like the water cups they give you at marathons. One at every mile.
My college roommate was with us that night and I hadn't seen her forever and it would have been rude to turn away a drink she purchased to celebrate my birthday. So I downed them left and right until I was smiley and slurry and making friends with guys named Sven.
I woke up fully clothed on my couch at 3:30 a.m. It was Easter and I knew I'd have to meet my family in the early afternoon. I thought I had it in the bag. I drank a little water and retreated to my bed to "sleep it off."
When I got up several hours later, my college roommate called to check on me. She wanted to come by to show me her recent wedding pictures. I sat at my dining room table with her, spinning and sweaty as she thumbed through the album. Finally, I excused myself and retreated into my adorable mint green 1950's bathroom to puke.
Yaking when you're in your later 20s is so much harder than when you're in your early 20s. I remember thinking I was going to have to call an ambulance. Surely, I was dying. My poor roommate came and brought me a glass of water. Which, of course, made me vomit again. I apologized profusely and told her I probably needed to lie down. Or go to the emergency room.
I didn't get up for about 5 more hours when it was time to go to my Grandma's house for Easter. I looked like I had crawled out of the sewer. Thankfully, a little honey baked ham and Hawaiian rolls did me right. I was back to my old self by bedtime.
But I haven't had a martini since. And I think every now and then I could hear my bathroom murmuring, "Thank you."