Game Plan

10Jun08

Big pot of coffee at my elbow, untouched pastrami wrap in the trash and a pashmina shawl for a tongue. You are looking at the remains of last nights silly drunk. In retrospect I guess I can agree with those who say you won’t find joy at the bottom of a bottle. But I did find something else. Rather constructive thinking.

I blame sports, really. If the godforsaken football hadn’t been on right now, my friends and loved ones wouldn’t have been blinded to my brittle state by the empty promises of waving about big cans of lager and wearing silly hats. We would have drunk tea and discussed the major things in life. Instead, I was invited, cordially but still, to partake as the city buckles in the stranglehold of bad singalong, bad rayon and the Swedish take on adult culture (a piss for brains beer literally called a “Big Strong”).

Feeling these jollifications weren’t really the ticket in my delicate state, I took myself home for a night of sobriety, Blues and perhaps a small lamb chop, with beetroots and an ailoi on the side.I had, however, made a fatal miscalculation. This was no mere normal night of kicking round a small ball. This was also the night of dropping by The Other Flat and Packing Up Some Stuff I Will be Needing and Dropping of The Ring. Most of which actual action is a hazy daze. Probably because I felt the need to buoy myself up with a very business-like pitcher of Mojito on completion.

I will pass over most of the details with delicacy. Let me just state that: if alcohol and I Will Survive have one combined effect, it is not to enhance ones appreciation of - or ability to properly prepare – a lamb and beet dish. The soggy mesh of blood and charred bones went straight to the trash, while I conjured up a bottle of Strega and soldiered on.

There were tears. There was drunk dialing. There were thoughts of taking it all back. There were thoughts of eating a whole tub of ice-cream, or buying a one way flight to Madrass, or going out and getting laid by a rayon-wearing member of the public. All of which I happily forgot, when I started to unpack. Or actually, when I stood, a pair of D&G wedges in hand, cleansing them of last summers appeltinis.

I realised that while it may hurt as a little bitch and be very slimming, there is a reason for breaking up. I am not ready to hand in my dancing shoes, to be a part time mum and a full time domestic goddess. I needed – not at that precise moment, but still – more Long Islands. I needed a bit of summer and a bit of fun and if that makes me irresponsible and awful – well, it aint my kid so don’t talk to me bout irresponsible.

Strenghtened in spirit and weak in knees, I went to my computer and hastily sent out a party red-alert, filling every weekend from here to kingdom come with frivolous dresses and champagne cocktails. And nailpolish. Luckily, the Friends are coming to the rescue, and I find myself swamped in invitations for pool-sides and the country houses, the dancefloors and the parks for an all fun no heart good time. Forget the tea and the stove for now. I will survive.

Sob.

Filed under: At The Bar: Parties, Nightlife, Friendships   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: blast and damn, break up, crying, drinks, engagement ring, football, giving back, heartbreak, mojitos, party, Soccer