Saturday, 7 November 2015

Too Old for this Ish

Current status:  Sitting with a bird's nest on top of my head and a cup of tea (cup of tea is on table, not head. Bird's nest not stable enough to stand hot beverages on). Fluffy dressing gown deployed.  Slippers are go.  I am one bad ass father-mucker.   Considering going for a 3 mile shuffle around the block, but the dressing gown might make me look a few chunks short of a stew.  

I can't handle hang overs any more.  I'm nearing my twenty eighth birthday and quickly realising that I'm no longer one of them "yoots" (innit).  Last week, I went to Cyprus to attend a friend's wedding, along with 40-odd other people.  It was a magical day: we laughed, we cried, A gave a best man's speech (he was actually best man. Didn't just bulldoze his way into the speeches for shits and giggles), we were flung around by traditional Cypriot dancers.  Much memories.  Such wedding.

It was the other 6 days that nearly had me crying to my mummy, clutching my poor, pickled liver.  I met some fantastic girls who had also come down for the occasion, but fuck me, they could drink! I thought I liked a bit of the falling down water, but these girls were in another league altogether.  Every night they had us piled into taxis to Ayia Napa for shots, shouts and shisha pipes (also dubious cocktails dispensed from giant, plastic cocks), and every night I had the kind of night where you go home with a sore face from smiling so much (or in my case, a sore face from tripping over my own feet and face planting a board walk.  Classy girl).  But the mornings.  I don't think there was a morning on that holiday where I didn't wake up with some degree of hang over.  They ranged from "Oof, my head's a bit hurty.  I think I'll sleep it off on the sun loungers" to 


This enlightening experience has taught me that there are certain things I can't handle as well as I used to be able to as I clatter my way through adulthood.  Here goes, then:


See above example.  Every time I go out, I now need at least 3 days to recover.  By no means have I stopped my beloved nights on the tiles, but the recovery time is much, much more grim that it used to be.  As a student, I could take full advantage of the drinks discounts on Student Night in town and then happily trot off to work in Debenhams the next day for my 9am shift.  Sure I had to spend the occasional 5 minutes hiding in the big, walk-in freezer going "Uuuuuunngh!", but it was mostly okay.  Nowadays, my hang overs span 3 phases over as many days:

Phase 1: The Hang Over - this is the part that is traditionally associated with the day after the night before.  Headache.  Stroppiness.  Desire to eat anything and everything at eye level.  Standard.

Phase 2: The Feels - This is like PMS on 'roids.  Am extremely sensitive and prone to getting a bit teary eyed at adverts.  "What do you mean stop crying?  SO many people haven't claimed back their PPI.  They could be owed thousands.  IT'S SO SAD!!"

Phase 3: The ZZZs - Feeling deceptively human, but so mentally drained that I can't remember basic vocabulary and the fact that I can't actually walk through walls.

Trying to be liked

Okay, yeah.  I'm a people pleaser, so part of me will always care at least a bit what people think of me.  I hate the idea of making someone feel bad or letting them down, even if by "letting someone down" I mean being a fraction of a second late to meet them for coffee.  But, I have given up on agonizing over whether people like me, which is an excellent development because it frees up my brain for higher purposes like deciding whether to grill or microwave my bacon or whether I should start wearing more hats.

It's not my business what a person thinks of me, and trying to force friendship on anyone only makes things worse. I'd like to think this lesson came to me because I'm maturing, but I think it has more to do with how cats react when I hug them too hard.

Sitting down without going "oof"

At what age did this become something I do??  I'm only twenty seven and I've already started making grandpa noises.  It's only a matter of time before I start standing in my doorway, shaking my fist and telling the neighbour kids to get off my damn lawn.

Getting up without saying "oof"



Much like with the drinking, this one's a bit hypocritical.  Am currently surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of household crap that needs putting away/dusting/pushing under to bed to be ignored until I desperately need the thing and can't remember where the hell I put it so I have to go out and buy a new thing, only to find the old thing when I've already made the purchase of the new thing.  Difference is, mess never used to bother me.  It does now.  I'm hardly a domestic goddess (or anywhere in the hierarchy of domestic deities to be fair), but I can't relax when I'm surrounded by my own crap (as in stuff. I'm messy, not filthy).  I actually clean these days.  And sometimes... don't tell anyone... I enjoy it.

I know.  I know.  It sickens me too.

Welp.  I'll be off then.  Time to think about what I can drink tonight at Mr & Mrs Cyprus' home wedding do that will give me enough pretend confidence to attempt to force friendship on some more people, while I dig through a pile of clothes, looking for a particular pile of clothes within the pile of clothes.  I'd better get up now.


 Cyprus, take me back!  I promise I'll behave this time!

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