I’m going to do something very unusual for me. I’m going to rip out this post in just a few minutes. No photos. None of the usual thought I put into my writing. No sitting on it for a bit, then coming back and editing. There will be no second thoughts, no manipulating the words to make them it sound better.
I’m not going to do any of those things, because if I do, I will never write what I’m about to write and I will never hold myself accountable to my words.
I drank too much on Saturday night and made a fool of myself.
What’s the big deal, you might be thinking? Don’t most of us do that from time to time? Maybe. But most of you are not me. You are not a grown woman, married with children. Maybe it only happens to me once a year or so, but for me, once a year is one time too many.
Oh, I had a blast in the process of getting trashed. Don’t we all? But let me ask you, was I half as attractive or witty as I thought I was after having quaffed five Sun King tall boys and a glass of wine? I’m guessing I’m not. Was I having a blast at 6:30 Sunday morning, barfing my way through a privileged chance to watch the NFL Combine? No. Pretty sure my husband and friends weren’t, either. Or the guy I knocked out of the way at Lucas Oil so I wouldn’t throw up on his shoes. Classy, Angie.
Nor am I having a blast listening to the voices inside my head for the last 24 hours. The ones that tell me I’m a joke, that I need to grow up, that I should be ashamed of myself.
I am pushing 40, and I am too old for this shit. No one wants to see this show, most of all not me. If you hung out with me Saturday night, I apologize. Random guy at Harry & Izzy’s? I apologize. Norv Turner? I apologize. Michael Irvin? (I’m not even kidding, how mortifying is that?) Ian Rapoport? I apologize. And most of all, to my husband and friends: Mike, Patty, Katie and Adam, I apologize.
I’m not swearing off drinking. Here’s the thing, I enjoy it, above all else, for the taste. My father-in-law, an alcoholic with stories that would make me crawl underground and never come back out, would always marvel at me – at my ability to have a really good glass of wine and be content with that. I don’t drink crap. I can skip your Bud Light, your 99-cent Day-glo margaritas. But I love a good craft beer or a nice crisp white. And I love me, either sober or after a drink or two. I did not love me yesterday. I hated me. And I am definitely too old for that shit. Never again.