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Day 13: A tub-thwacking dose of reality

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Good Intention. Bad Execution. (August 1, 2012)

I remember feeling dizzy that morning as I walked into my spacious new bathroom, hands full of food and water. I had the ‘morning after sweats’ and just needed to lie down on the cool tiles for a minute and I’d be okay. I had just started to bend my knees to sit down when I vaguely registered everything slipping out of my grasp.  Whether it was the clatter of the plate meeting tile or the pain of my head meeting the edge of the tub that brought back my coherence, I am unsure.

I only knew that I was ass-first on the floor, upper body wobbling like last night’s drunk.  Blinking hard to clear the polka dots from my eyes, I looked around from my odd new vantage point and said to no one, “WhhhaaaaHapppennnn?”.

I should’ve known that single girl solo attempts in the bar scene would lead to bad things. Last night, for instance. Far too many free drinks. Far too little food.  Married men who bragged about their three kids in one breath and leaned in close to tell me how fucking sexy I am in the next. One of whom followed me to my car, doing his sloppydrunk best to convince me to take him back to my place.

Groaning at the flashback, I thought, “Did I tell him off? I think I did. Yes. I DID.  I told him to keep his fucking hands off of me and go home to his WIFE. And that I sure as hell deserved more than HIM.” What an asshole.

Feeling less woozy, I propped my chin on my hands and evaluated the wreckage. The indestructible Tervis tumbler was fine, but I was sitting in a puddle of the damn ice water that was once inside of it. The plate wasn’t as lucky. There was a scallop of color sheared from its cheerful yellow edge. The stark exposure of its vulnerable insides made me touch two fingers delicately to my throbbing forehead.  There would be a small bump.  My lower lip began to tremble as the single-girl-terrors took over.  “Oh, god.  That bump that could’ve been a gash. That gash could’ve bled buckets while I was unconscious. I could’ve DIED. And no one would have found me for days, because I am alone. So. Fucking. Alone.”

I thought moving to Atlanta would make everything better.  I’d envisioned hitting the town each night dressed in fabulously sexy outfits, flaunting the body that only the Northeastern lifestyle of the young and stupid had allowed me to attain. (i.e., sickly thin)  Here, I’d reclaim all the things I lacked while merely existing up there: Heart. Love. Ease. Space. Breathing again. Living again.

Good intention. Bad execution.  Here I was, still just a junk-food-eating, chain-smoking boozer. Except now I drove my quickly widening ass everywhere and there wasn’t a ladycrew to go out with every night. No more of this nonsense.

I didn’t know exactly what the “different” needed to be, but I knew I had to figure it out soon.  At that moment though, it was all I could manage to lift myself from the bathroom floor and shuffle back to bed like a woman much older than my years. I closed my eyes to the pain and told myself I’d figure out how to fix this later.

…I took a sick day that day.

5 responses »

  1. So funny, and so relatable…sometimes the existential hangover is worse than the booze-driven one. Oy!

  2. This is really well written! Aw, it also totally made me want to give you a huge hug 🙂 I was relieved to see it was a re-post 🙂 Why Atlanta??

  3. I loved this post then and I still love it now. So glad you are listening to your heart. This germaphobe is still trying to wrap her head around why you had a plate of food in the bathroom, though. x


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