…had a rough night.
That’s me on Sunday morning, surrounded by my loved ones, close to death by hangover.
I’ll spare you the more graphic photos, taken so lovingly by my boyfriend the evening before, as I’m quite confident neither your nor my gag reflex deserves that on a Tuesday night. Instead, I give you a quick step by step guide to being the most memorable hostess in the history of the world, a title currently held by yours truly.
1. Come up with the brilliant idea to throw a surprise party for your boyfriend’s 25th.
2. Get so excited that you eventually (completely intentionally) tell your boyfriend about said surprise. Promise to combat his disappointment/dismay at having had surprise blown by making mass amounts of baked goods.
3. Ship in all your friends from out-of-town.
4. Eat nothing but swabs of peanut butter cream cheese frosting and slivers of frozen banana chocolate chip blondies all day as you bake, bake, bake and frost, frost, frost for the big event.
5. Valiantly refuse dinner in the name of getting a good buzz and fitting into your new Urban Outfitters dress, purchased specifically for the evening.
6. Valiantly measure out the shots in your mixed drink, for safe partying, only to discover that two is apparently not the accepted number. (That’s a double, darling.)This is also known as: completely overestimating the alcohol content of one beverage. (See also: that time I thought champagne didn’t count as a drink.)
7. To add insult to injury, also completely overestimate your post-college alcohol tolerance.
8. End up getting sick by 11 p.m. In your one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. That’s currently hosting 25 of your boyfriend’s closest friends. Who are sadly not as wasted as you, and have perfect hearing. And now all think you’re a raging alcoholic.
Sigh. I hear it was a super lovely party prior to my little incident, all fresh baked goods and good conversation and a bunch of adults responsibly enjoying a beer or two.
I also hear I was super happy, flitting from new friends to old, sticking a billion candles in the chocolate peanut-butter layer cake, holding hands with the birthday boy and leading a stirring rendition of happy birthday.
I’m pretty much mortified by what came happened next – seriously, who does this? at their own party? – but I’m trying to get over it. After all, I know it could have been a lot worse. How lucky am I that I was surrounded by the kind of friends who will secure your hair in a pony tail and rub your back and tell you it will all be over soon, even as you’re in the throes of the worst kind of ickiness? They sat with me on my floor and laid next to me on my bed – Trace, who’s been taking care of me since we were college freshmen, and Jon, who saw me in prime form on my 21st, and even Matty, who’s going to be a wonderful ED physician – and I am so, so grateful.
They also laughed at me a bit, which they were totally entitled to do.
And when it finally turned into the next day and I woke up feeling like I was about to die and texted Dave with the simple yet poignant message of ‘help,’ he came back from brunch, with Matty in tow, and brought me water and pretzels and assurances that I would, in fact, one day be able to emerge from our bed. Matty even rescued my stuffed animals from the top of the dresser where Dave has relegated them for most of our relationship, to my un-ending delight.
None of this changed the fact that I couldn’t get down more than half a plain bagel on Monday morning (yes, Monday, you heard right) but I suppose averaging one devastatingly bad hangover every 2.5 years isn’t the worst thing in the world. And while I’m tempted to swear off alcohol forever – like I tend to do every 2.5 years, post-vomit, I’ll stick with a more realistic resolution for now: I’m done with vodka grapefruits for good. Nothing but trouble, those cocktails.
*Most photos by Matty, I think, and a few by Dave.