I have quite the affinity for rum, as you already may have gathered.
Hell, if it’s alcohol I probably really like it. But one beverage in particular I especially love is champagne. The problem, though, is that champagne does not love me back. If I drink too much champagne, the likelihood of me crying is 98%. The likelihood of me then yelling at you is 90%.
Odds of me being embarrassed by my behavior the next day? 100%
Now, New Year’s Eve is not exactly my favorite holiday. I hate the hype, the costs, the pressure there is to find someone to hump at midnight.
Did I say hump? I meant kiss. But one reason I do love New Year’s Eve? Free-flowing champagne!
Three years ago I REALLY enjoyed the champagne and ended up being snarky to my best friend, falling down stairs and crying. Trifecta! As a result of this embarrassment I decided it was time to start acting like a responsible adult. I declared January to be The Month of No Alcohol. Banuary, you might say. Many thought I couldn’t do it, but I survived and sadly lost seven pounds by changing nothing else but my alcohol consumption. On a midget, seven pounds is a lot of weight!
The first weekend in February rolled around and I was itching for a bit of the hooch. My friends got wind that I was back and we proceeded to hit it. Hard. The night was full of shots, dancing and more shots.
The next day I woke up feeling horrible and kicking myself for so quickly jumping back into the Land of Bad Decisions. As I began to get my bearings, making sure I had all of my belongings I realized one key item was missing: my pants.
I searched EVERYWHERE. I could not find my pants! I quickly began to worry that perhaps I had taken my pants off at the bar? I called my friends who quickly assured me that my ass was very much covered the last time they saw me. It was winter in Chicago, for Pete’s sake! My friend then informed me of a friend of hers who had once drunkenly removed her clothes BEFORE she even entered her building. Once again, it’s winter in Chicago…I would never do that…right?
I slowly opened the door to my condo and peeked in the hallway…
With a pit in my stomach I traveled down the hallway and turned the corner…
I peered down the stairwell and…
…my jeans are lying in a heap in the middle of the stairwell landing between the third and second floors.
At this point it is 2:00 p.m. and I can only imagine how many of my neighbors have seen my jeans. Oh, what must they have thought!
Banuary should have lasted a little longer.
Moral of the Story:
Keep your pants on. Seriously.
Or at least wait until you enter your home. Then feel free to have a pants off, dance off party as often as you would like.
As my neighbors likely know, this is done frequently at my house.