I went to a birthday party for a friend on Saturday. He and his girlfriend live near Capitol Hill, and I was excited to have an excuse to check out some of the bars on 8th Street. I haven't had the chance to imbibe in that neighborhood yet, and if there is one thing I enjoy it is imbibing in a new and interesting bar. This post isn't about the party, which was a blast; it’s about my hellish morning trying to get back to my house.
7:00 AM - Wake up. Realize that I'm on a bathroom floor. But it's not my bathroom floor. How embarrassing. I hope nobody had to use the bathroom while I was passed out with my arms around the toilet bowl. I really hope nobody actually did. Pick myself, and what little pride I have left, off the floor and walk out to the couch in the living room. The birthday boy is passed out, sitting up in a really uncomfortable looking chair. What a moron I think, and fall asleep on the couch with my shoes still on.
9:00 AM - Wake up. Realize that it’s approximately 97 degrees in the apartment. One of the more charming features of this apartment is that the heating system is a 1920's era radiator. It never turns off. The only way to regulate the heat in the living room is by opening a window. Someone, probably me, closed it at some point the night before. Dehydration is a serious concern. I get up and have 3 aspirin with a Big Gulp™ of DC tap (mmmmm...carcinogenic). I briefly consider walking to the Metro and heading home to my own bed, but rule in favor of a nap. Standing makes the room spin, and I'm pretty sure I can't deal with a 40-minute metro ride just now.
10:00 AM - Wake up. Eyes glued shut because I didn't take out my contact lenses. Temp still equivalent to Tikrit in August. Must. Leave. Sauna. Luckily, I don't have to endure the field sobriety test of finding my shoes and tying them, because I never took them off. Remind myself to punish whoever is responsible for my pain. Realize it’s me. Realize I'm being punished. One less thing on my to-do list.
10:15 AM - Exit Apartment building. Sunlight. How nice.
10:30 AM - I take the metro to and from work all the time. In a city, nobody ever wants to converse with random strangers on the street. Today, no fewer than three people try to wish me a good morning and/or speak to me. My brain is unable to formulate responses in English, so I trudge past my well-wishers, contributing in my own small way to the insular social dynamic of life in DC. I briefly consider mugging one of the friendly people for a pair of sunglasses, but I can’t see through my gummy contact lenses and therefore can’t tell who might have some on. It occurs to me that it might be a good idea to take a cab home instead of powering through a metro ride in my condition. But I spent too much money last night. No reason to add to the damage.
10:35 AM – Eastern Market metro station. Gratifying darkness and solitude. Nobody seems to be taking the train. Maybe my morning is taking a turn for the better.
10:40 – Orange Line to Vienna. First two stops, no problem. Last few, notsogood. I’m concentrating on fighting the nausea that spikes in my throat every time the car bounces. Breath deep. Only a few stops to go. Try not to think about the strange odor emanating from the seat behind me. Try not to think about the 7-11 Big Bite™ I ate at 4 in the morning. Sweet Zeus are we there yet? If I can get to Metro Center for my transfer, I can pull it together before I have to take my next train.
10:50 – Metro Center. The train stops. Then my stomach stops. The doors open and I flee into the sweet, sweet freedom of...Sunday afternoon tourists. I wonder if I'll be arrested if I throw up in some kid's backpack? Luckily, nobody seems to want to stand very close to me. I wonder why. Perhaps the smell? Or the fact that my hair is standing straight up and may have lint from the bathmat I used for a pillow?
11:10 – Passing Woodley Park on the Red Line. I’ve spent the last two stops trying to decide if I can jump off the train at a stop, throw up in a garbage can and make it back onto the train. Waiting for another is not an option. I determine that I don’t have time for the bolt n’ barf; so on the train I sit, trying to decide if I’ll get busted for public drunkenness at eleven in the morning if I get sick on the train. I can’t decide if the nausea is making the headache worse, or if the headache is making me want to throw up. Doesn’t matter, I’m going to lie down in front of a train at Cleveland Park.
11:30 – Home. After holding myself together for the remainder of the ride, I shamble down the hill to my house and pry my contacts from my poor smoke stung eyes and crawl into bed. I forget to take off my clothes from the night before.
The Lesson: There are times when cab fare is money well spent.
Labels: I'm a drunkard
