Do you ever have one of those weekends where you wake up at the end of it, in a strangers bed with a pounding headache and wondering what the hell you are doing with your life?
Last weekend that is exactly what happened to me. They say write what you know, and at this point in my life – I know alcohol. So, here it goes.
I have a friend who lives on the outskirts of London, let’s call her Sophie. Anyway, Sophie goes to one of those fancy art Universities where she studies photography and graphics and the like. Anyway, I hadn’t seen her in a while, so I caught the train and made the two hour journey up to see her. I met her at the station at 8:30 – she was already drunk.
That pretty much sets the tone for the evening.
From then on my memories of the evening become a beautiful and colourful mosaic of Sambuca shots, cigarettes and picking my friend Sophie off of the pavement.
At one o’clock in the morning I remember putting her to bed, helping her out of her shoes and laying her onto her side so that she could vomit into the saucepan I’d put there. Normally when I crash over Sophie’s I share her bed with her but, for obvious reasons, I decided against it this time.
So in my drunken haze I made my way to one of her housemate’s rooms’, he wasn’t there for the weekend and I figured he wouldn’t mind if I kipped on his bed. (After all, I have met him once before and he seemed nice enough.)
The room was spinning when I laid my head down and I was buzzing. The night had been a strange one, Sophie – spurred on by tequila and liquid courage – had almost hooked up with one of the tutors from her Uni. I had spent most of the night either trying to stop her or trying to escape a rather vibrant young woman who had mistakenly assumed I was gay. Meanwhile Sophie’s other housemate had almost gotten himself into a fight with the bouncer.
It was a night for madness.
Sophie and her housemate had been drinking since twelve in the afternoon, so they were understandably a lot higher up on the drunk scale than I was. When I hit the sack I still felt raring to go.
Instead I watched an episode of Charmed on my phone (great show) and passed out.
When we woke the next morning Sophie was embarrassed beyond all hell, and neither her nor her housemate felt up to doing much besides having a full English and a cup of coffee the size of their heads.
So we did just that and we laughed at how we still get ourselves into these crazy situations. We laughed at how, despite growing up and changing our hair and our jobs, sometimes we still act like we’re nineteen.
In reality though I’m almost twenty-three. Young enough to still get away with these antics but old enough to wonder whether or not I should change my tune.
Nowadays when I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed it’s a strange collage of baby photos and drunk selfies. It makes you question your own life, y’know?
I’m at that awkward stage in life where half of the friends in my life seem to have it all figured out, they seem happy in their jobs or are creating families or something else equally terrifying. In the meantime the other half of us are floundering around in the grey space.
For now, I quite like the grey space.
It means being able to go to London for a day of shopping with my mates at the drop of a hat. It means being able to book a last minute holiday with my boyfriend with absolutely no hassle. And yeah, it means being able to wake up with a banging hangover and a craving for a glass of orange juice so large I can drown in it.
It means still having the freedom to make mistakes.
I’ve made a few of those lately. And although I cringe over it, I know it means that I’m still growing, still learning and still figuring out who I am and who I want to be.
I’m not there yet though.
So, here’s to drunk weekends and good friends. Here’s to the nights that you won’t remember but wish you could.