I have reached an all new height on the arsehole scale today. I woke up, groaned and reached for my sunglasses. And lay in bed for a further two hours, groaning. With sunglasses on. The reason? I thought I was adult enough to enjoy an adult dinner party like an adult. But I'm not.
The BF, my people, and Carlos hosted their first dinner party as a married couple. And invited a host of Smug Marrieds to join in. I was immediately transported back to my childhood when I saw the dining table: an 8 seater, beautifully set, with a ninth place set at the corner. With a chair from her desk. I knew it was my buttocks that were destined to grace it . Ah!
The problem with functions of this type is none of us are adult enough to enjoy adult dinner parties like adults. They start out well: nibbles (fancy), wine (fancy), conversation (suitably civil). But then something strange happens. I think it might be that the wine begins to flow. And then the jaegermeister follows suit. And then, because we're adults and we behave in an adulty way, the tequila is uncorked.
Kind of like being at varsity. Except we didn't eat fish fingers. And we drank slightly more expensive varieties of liquor. And we drank out of glass vessels. Yup, gone are the days of polystyrene.
I began the evening off with, "No, seriously, I like being single. I'm piles too busy to have a boyfriend. No, I don't want to meet your single brother.". And as I continued to drain bottles of a glorious blush, my sentiments changed: "Is he hot? Hell, yes, set me up with him. And the other one you were talking about? Him too.". "No, I won't cheat on your brother. Make him the last blind date, then I won't be cheating. How can you even think I'd cheat on him? I love him. We were made for each other."
I'm not even sure we ate at the dinner table. I do know we had fillet though, because I found mustard seeds in my teeth this morning, and a piece of rare meat in my handbag.
And so, this morning, I lay in bed with my sunglasses on, draining litres of water in the attempt to rehydrate, piecing together the fragments of memory I have. And just as post-jol depression (PJD) was setting in, I phoned The BF to thank her for a lovely evening.
The Pant: Hi pal. How are you doing?
BF: Why are you screaming at me?
TP: (dropping to a barely audible whisper) Sorry. Just wanted to thank you for a lovely evening. Had a bit too much wine though.
And at the mere mention of the word 'wine', she flung the phone at Carlos and began dry retching.
Carlos: Sorry, pal, we had a bit of a big one last night.
TP: All of us, then? Ja, just wanted to say thanks.
C: For what?
TP: For dinner and everything. Had a great time.
C: You were here?
And just like that, my PJD vanished. I couldn't have behaved that badly if my presence is unrecallable.
Being an adult: pretty damn childish.