Let me preface this post by explaining that I have waited almost a full week after the aforementioned ladies’ night for my brain to be willing to face up to all of the details. Even now, I feel like part of my brain is curled up on the couch staring catatonically at a re-run of Two and a Half Men, unwilling and unable to reach for the remote and change the channel, determined to pretend that nothing ever happened.
As do so many of the more tragically funny episodes in my little life-sitcom, this story begins with some heavy drinking. More specifically, it begins with a bus ride into the city and a 1.25 litre plastic bottle of vodka and lemonade, mixed with the precision and careful forethought that can only be the result of a bottle of champagne and a few espresso martinis. As my BFFL Zoe and I waited for our bus to arrive and we began calling every guy either one of us had stored in our phones, the sensible part of my brain packed his small but practical Samsonite travel case and left, leaving my inhibitions looking like they might run after him at any second, which of course they did as I made my way through the happy-juice in my plastic sippy-cup.
My plan was to get just drunk enough to be carefree when approached by potentially interested gents, thus increasing my chances of going home with one. As Zoe held my hand and helped me stumble through the city streets to our destination it became clear that I had overshot the mark. Not to be deterred, I saw this as a fantastic opportunity to instead be my most extroverted and confident self. When we found ourselves in the very long queue at the door of our destination (which, while it will remain un-named, is a reputed meat-market and a sure thing for a gal looking for a little somethin’-somethin’) we naturally struck up a conversation with the two dudes in front of us. As we inched towards the door and I began making good-natured but slightly inflammatory jokes at the expense of one of our new male friends’ dress sense (a shirt with a sunset on it??? REALLY????) Zoe began doing the half-smile through clenched teeth that she does every time I get us into an awkward social situation. I deftly pulled the old switcheroo and began to focus my attention on the slightly-less-attractive-but-taller one – although I had to squint to see him through the haze of inebriation I was sure he was an option.
When we finally got inside I dragged Zoe straight to the bar for a “top-up,” noticing what seemed to be a veritable buffet of doable dudes in the beer garden on the way and lamenting the fact that Zoe can’t stand smoking. At the bar I made a sensible choice to not only switch drinks from vodka to cider, but also to order a pint. We squeezed through sweaty, erratically dancing bodies to find a little pocket of space near the cover band where we proceeded to be bumped from ever angle until we were wearing more of our drinks than we had consumed. I glanced around, scouting for talent, and caught the eye of the slightly-less-attractive-but-taller one across the room, but by this stage I was easily distracted and began whooping at the opening bars of whatever song the generic pub band had launched into.
At the risk of allowing this post to tumble into cliché, the rest of the night is a blur. I remember sculling my pint because I was sick of holding it, and returning to the bar to replace Zoe’s drink which was knocked out of her hand by some guy shuffling behind her, and deciding while I was at the bar that I may as well have another pint. I remember doing the annoying, slutty, girl-on-girl dancing that drunk chicks do. I remember telling some guy who was dancing behind me to “come find me later” as Zoe pulled me towards the toilets. I remember my mouth connecting with someone elses without having any idea what he looked like, or whether he was the same guy from before. I remember trying to scrutinise his face through the now very dense beer-goggles I was wearing, and then deciding it didn’t matter what he looked like as his brother was going to drive us home and I didn’t have enough money left for a taxi.
I do remember more details, but it would not be appropriate to recount them here. As it is I’m reading over what I’ve written with much shame and embarrassment. There was of course that horrific instant the next morning when I had those first moments of recall from the night’s events, and as Zoe filled me in on the particulars I felt my disgrace outweigh my intense and punishing hangover.
My first mistake was the special lemonade on the bus ride. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. My first mistake was going out with the purpose of snagging some sausage. Ladies, take note – being able to say “mission accomplished” is surprisingly not as satisfying as you would expect. The bus ride refreshments will probably happen again. The single-minded cock-seeking mission will not.