“Men! And by ‘men’ I mean ‘Man with his skinny black jeans and his f**king guitar.'”
So, you see, I’m in a rather bitter and rather drunk phase in my life. My friend Lillian is lying on my bedroom floor, having just drained her glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, proclaiming that she would like to have sex with a man while he’s on the phone to his best mate. Addison (not as innocent as she may seem) giggles along, cradling her glass of wine.
This evening began with a decision to have wine and cheese. Which really means WINE and cheese. A lot more more wine than cheese, if we’re honest. What is the difference between 3 and 4.5, in proportions? We’re too drunk to work it out, but that’s the ratio of cheese [and people] to wine at this evening’s gathering.
“Anyone else for more wine?” asks Lillian. I feel that I should probably finish the current glass before getting a new one, but top it up anyway.
The three of us have been friends for ages. I met Lillian (and, I suppose, she met me) on our first day at University, over five years ago; and I met Addison exactly a year later. And they met each other through me. And that is how we ended up – three University-educated young women – lying giggling on my bedroom floor at 3 am on a Saturday morning. We’re bang on for a quarter-life crisis, but I don’t think this is it.
Allow me to contextualise our drunken Friday night a little. We’re not usually girls who drink a lot (although apparently we do do it quite often, but we have high standards and it’s going to be a nice bottle of Pinot Noir) – last time we decided to drink, we lasted until about 11 pm and then had to talk ourselves into going out to town. We lasted an hour. When Lillian and I were first year students at University, we skipped an enormous student party and went home to have tea instead. True story.
Tonight, however, tonight we needed to get drunk. Lillian has been really stressed out by work lately (we both work in research at our alma mater) and I had the biggest week from hell you could imagine (there was an explosion, and that is not an exaggeration). Addison is always happy to oblige when we need a girls’ night and a hug, so that’s how we ended up in my living room with 2.5 bottles of wine and some cheese at eight o’clock; and walking to the supermarket for “MORE WINE!” two and a half hours later.
There is this guy (don’t all the best stories begin like that?) who I’m kinda keen on. He’s pretty sexy. And by “pretty sexy” I mean that not only is he pretty attractive to begin with, but he’s the best example of The Pete Effect (more to come on that later) that I’ve ever seen. (In short, it’s what happens when you give a guy an instrument and he instantly becomes more attractive). Anyway, back to the guy. He’s a friend of a friend who I met over dinner one evening, he seemed nice and he seemed interested. So we hung out. And then we had drinks. And then we had coffee. And then we had more coffee. And then he brought dinner to my house. And then he SLEPT HERE. And, all the while, he tried NOTHING. Not one thing. Not one thing since deciding I was lovely and trying to come home with me the night we met. I’m not overreacting, right? That is weird? And this is part of the reason that I needed girls and wine. I needed to know that I wasn’t overreacting. (The girls concluded that I wasn’t.) So not overreacting, but also unlikely to be getting anywhere.
Life lesson: I should have done that that night. While I had the chance.
Anyway, so the girls came over, armed with wine and cheese. After going to the gym to take out all of my frustrations on the treadmill, I climbed into my fat-pants and a revolting promotional t-shirt (hey, it was free!) and settled in for the night. This would all have worked okay until we were 2.5 bottles of wine down and decided that the only solution was to keep drinking. That’s how I ended up dashing down the street – in the centre of the city! – in my fat-pants at 10:30 on a Friday night. The fat-pants didn’t feel like a bad decision until we waked past a bar. Not just any bar, but, as my luck would have it, a bar with one particular sexy musician sitting with other sexy musicians outside. (From this point on, he will be interchangeably referred to as either Mr Mustoffelees [that was Addison and Lillian’s idea and makes more sense if you know T.S Eliot/Old Possum/Cats – the Musical] or Alty Salty [that’s what he gets for the skinny jeans and wayfarers.]) The last person that I wanted to see the night that I needed wine to forget about him. We dashed past (three times! The final time just so that the girls could “ooh” and “aah” and agree that he was pretty sexy). Hopefully, we went unnoticed. (Hopefully!)
At the moment, life is like a long string of embarrassments, easily distilled by that one story: drunkenly running in to the sexy guy that is both far too cool for you and no longer interested, while getting more wine in your fat-pants on a Friday night.
Success? I think not.