First of all, let me preface by saying that I love that I’m writing this post directly after writing one about being ‘an adult’. It would appear, that my membership to the youth club is still very active….

Friday night a good friend was in town and it seemed vital to celebrate and catch up over drinks. I went out glossed and sparkling, a blur of high boots, the perfect jeans and a red leather clutch. I smelled fantastic and felt that every single eyelash was magnified. (And for the record it was, new mascara makes my heart skip a beat).

A group of us met for drinks and while commenting on how adult I felt sitting at a bar, holding my clutch drinking a martini, I almost spill the sugary concoction all over myself.

This should have been a warning.

Five martinis later we moved on to yet another watering hole. More laughter, political discussion and marvelling at the ‘adultness’ of having just been invited to a trunk show (hooray!) I was in good spirits.

I was smart. I was beautiful. I was drunk.

Then someone re-introduced me to my old friend tequila and the night starts to get hazy. Suddenly I’m really hot and there isn’t enough air. Suddenly I’m having deep talks about the future, feeling hot tears (yes, I’m that girl) and stuttering. Suddenly I’m home. And suddenly, I miss my bed by two feet and with a loud thud make a bed on the floor.

I wake up raccoon eyed and confused. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty kitchen floor. I lay on the cool ground and close my eyes as the tequila shivers begin. I thank God for a nearby water bottle and then nuzzle into the floor anxiously awaiting the escape that sleep will bring. Then I remember I have to work.

With children. In an hour.

I’m not proud to admit this, but I actually felt tears in my eyes. I washed my face, throw my hair in a ponytail (brushing it hurt) and change into the first things I can reach in my closet. I get sick, brush my teeth and then attempt to wash off the club admission stamp of last night. Evidence of my evening isn’t something I want to display to the kids, or more accurately- to myself. It takes an impressive amount of scrubbing and I find myself actually mumbling ‘out damned spot’. It’s then I realize that it’s a bad sign when you actually find yourself identifying with a murderer.

I drive to work stopping outside the local KFC to get sick on the side of the road. At first I consider just laying in the ditch for a few minutes to clear my head but then notice all the cars slowly down to watch me. Because apparently, in my town projectile vomit is worth a second look.

I guess sometimes you need to watch the train wreck jut to feel good you aren’t apart of it.