Pop quiz – What’s your drinking curse?

You may not realise this, but every one of us is cursed. I will attempt to esplanade. The wicked fairy godmother came to our cots when we were wee sleeping bairns, and placed a curse on each and every one of us. A curse which will only emerge, revealing its wicked and evil cackling head, once we have imbibed well above the recommended 2 standard drinks per day. The curse, ye who be damned, of the drinking. What’s yours? If you don’t know, ask your partner or your bestie. They will be sure to tell you, in lurid, shameful, embarrassing detail. Here I’ll outline some of the more common profiles of the drinking cursed.

The singer

You’re in the bar. You spot the stage. You spot the microphone. You’re awesome. You need to be heard. You have songs to sing, of love, and loss. Of power, and glory. Oh yeah!  You reach the stage. You grab the microphone. It’s not karaoke night. It doesn’t matter. You’re in the moment. Reaching. Ever reaching. It must have be loooooove, but its oooover noooooow. Then falling. From the table.

This surely could not be me. It’s some random person called ‘Bride’.

The Lover/Flirt

A normal person by day, the curse turns this one into the ultimate seducer/seductress (in their own mind). Some do have remarkable skill, honed by years of practice, while others, blinded by the light, blink once, blink twice, and hope for words of grace and allure to slip forth from their gilded tongue. It sounds something like ‘blah blah me blor I me blor’. They shut up, and dance. They’re good. They’re really good. Nevermind that nobody can tell what good looks like anymore. Things start to look better for the lover.

Social warrior

A superhero without a cape, out to avenge the underdogs of the world and right the wrongs of the community, starting at a micro level, this cursed drinker needs EVERYONE to be on board. Are you listening? Are you? That’s ok. I’ll tell this person instead. OH NO! That poor guy is over there with his undies hanging out and hat on. He’ll NEVER get a girl looking like that. It’s your social – nay MORAL responsibility to do something about this, for the good of our future children, and our children’s children. And what about those bottles left out there? They’ll make their way into our oceans! And what about the whales? And the  orphans? And why can’t we adopt them? The whales? And the orphans?

 Fighter

The antithesis of the lover, they’re sure you looked at them. You did, didn’t you? You looked at them funny. You must have meant something by it. What do you want? You got a problem? Paranoia lives here, in this sadly cursed drinker. If they’re not a lone wolf, fighting  out at shadows, they’re in a couple, bickering and lashing out at perceived slights. You looked at that girl with the tiny arse over there, didn’t you? You’ve been staring at her all night. You may as well just get it over with and deliver her babies on the dance floor already. Hurry up.

Various Dwarf-named type people – Sleepy, Happy, Dopey, Floppy

Sleepy

Speaks for itself. Sleeps a lot. In most places. Head on table, on bar, on hands, or back, looking up at the sky, mouth catching flies.

Happy

The goshdarn cheeriest, smiliest, giggliest person you have EVER seen touch a drop of alcohol, ever. Like a rainbow of colour, or a bowl of Skittles. In fact… I’m not sure this one is even a curse, except that it usually seems to have an antithesis, the following morning, when the ogre from hell arises from the bed-swamp with the hangover of 20 men.

I would never, ever dance on a table in heels. That’s just silly. It’s that person called ‘Bride’ again.

Dopey

Don’t play cards with this one. Dopey drinks the drinks, then is rendered generally unable to focus on fixed objects, follow general conversations, dance sensible dance moves like ‘the sprinkler’ or the ‘ring on it’ move, and can utter only one monosyllabic word: ‘Huh?’

Floppy

Like a foal with newfound legs, this curse often strikes the long-limbed newborn drinking cursed among us. They can be found tottering and teetering in skyscraping heels, and rendered jelly-like by the rubbermaking effects of alcopop number three.  You could offer your steady arm, or you could just point and laugh.

 

You regularly see these out in heels on a Saturday night

Which one of these are you? Which one of these am I? (Note: I’ve made this really, really difficult for you.) Are you extra blessed – with a happy super-combo of curses – are you in fact a happy-sleepy-flirty fighter?

Stay tuned. I’m going out this Saturday night for a LONG overdue escape from the kid-factory. I’m sure nothing untoward will happen. And if it does, I’ll be sure to not write about it. Ahem…

xx

Where’s my over-age club?

We went out last night. Wooooooo. Yep, it’s a weekly event for most, but we don’t get out much these days since babysitting came into the equation.

It was wild girls afloat – on land. OK, maybe inside my head. To the outside world, I get the impression we were more like mummies. Yes, I know you know there are children. I’m talking about the dead kind – from Ancient Egypt.

 

So hot right now – oo oo! Put your hands in the air!

It wasn’t a girls’ night, but we all went out for dinner together as a gang, and divided a neat line down the middle of table, with boys up one end and girls up the other, while one end drank beer and the other cocktails. That didn’t really happen. We’re far too mature for that, and mixed and mingled with the opposite sex like grown up adults. (Yes it did). One end of the table maturely shared the food on the share plates and offered seconds to one another, while the other end  fought like toddlers over scraps. One end carefully perused the wine list and selected a Pinot Grigio from Victoria that complemented the Asian flavours nicely, while the other side stuck doggedly to beer. One end discussed jobs, careers, our weeks, handbags, cocktails, politics (no we didn’t), and physio vs chiro, and the other end did some grunting and laughing. This may or may not be a faithful recording of events. The food at China Beach in Manly is awesome though. So awesome I ate it all before I took a photo.

Me and my gorgeous friend who is named after a herb. We shall call her Parsley.

 

Then we kicked on to a place that shall not be named, ready for a few post-dinner drinks. The place was full of 20-somethings and possibly (possibly?) late teens, and I honestly didn’t think we stuck out that much. Until.

Five minutes after we’d arrived, a girl sat watching us, smiling, and then said ‘You guys are so awesome’. I was all ‘YES. Yes we are, totally. Thanks for noticing.’ And it was then … the horrible realisation dawned. She’d been smiling at us like you smile at your 90-year old grandmother, or your sweet pet dog, in that ‘aren’t they cute’ way. And she thought we were awesome JUST FOR BEING UPRIGHT and dancing rather than lying down in our crypts at midnight, being over 30 and all.

I needed to take stock. Absorb. Process. Go and see the ugly truth. So I went to the bathroom where another rude shock awaited.

A very kind, concerned sign on the back of the stall door said ‘Confused? Don’t be. The toilet paper’s behind you.’ I turned around, only to be confronted by a reflection OF MY BIG NAKED BUTT in a mirror. Oh, and some toilet paper. AND MY NAKED BUTT. Ha. Ha. Ha I get it. Was that supposed to be a joke? What kind of person wakes up in the morning and says – ‘oh – I’ll just go and get some mirrors to stick up behind my hotel toilets today’?? A man kind of person, I suspect.

Once you’re in your 30s, are we not supposed to dance anymore? Or just dance ironically, at funny 80s retro clubs doing the sprinkler? Or just sit in swanky wine bars, or, better yet, keep ourselves to ourselves, secreted away in each others’ homes drinking wine and falling asleep on the couch? Pubs and live bands are fun, but not so much for dancing.

I don’t want to go out dancing all that often, but I don’t want to feel like an old freak when I do. What I’d really like is an over-age club, where you need to show your ID to get in, and you have to be over 30 to get past the bouncer. Would that be too weird? Would that bring about all kinds of ageism?

I probably should have slunk home in my crypt-keeper dance floor shame, but I’ve decided not to care. I had an awesome night out with my friends, and I know something those other 20-somethings apparently don’t know. One day they’re going to hit 30 too.