Drunk on One Beer
I know. Pathetic, right? I’m cool, I’m hip. (Oh lordy – isn’t there a universal rule that if someone has to say they are cool and hip, they automatically aren’t? Shit, when did I get so square??) Okay, fine, I’m not cool or hip. Still, I would like to think I can go out with some girlfriends and keep up with them as we have good girlie fun together.
I put this theory to the test the other night when I met three dear girlfriends out for dinner (yes, husband was out of town, future blog on my “Me-cation” coming to a theatre near you). I put on my cutest heels, LBD, got my “hair did” and went to meet them at Gjelina on Abbot Kinney.
I should have already suspected trouble when I realized I couldn’t pronounce the name of the restaurant we were going to. I mean, hip and cool kids need to be able to say the names of the places they frequent, right? For a moment, I thought the gods were smiling on me anyway, because I got ROCK STAR parking in front of the crazily crowded restaurant.
Okay, truth be told, I had to move it because it was loading only, but THEN I found ANOTHER rock star spot across the street! And granted, I had to wait almost ten minutes for the chick to leave, and wave around annoyed drivers the whole time. But I got the spot! It was mine, all mine – kismet! Fate! Divine Providence!
And then the lights went out.
No, not in my car, dear reader. On the whole block. And in the restaurant. All. The power/electricity. Out.
Which meant Geegeelina or whatever that dumb place is called wouldn’t seat anymore diners. Which meant I had to walk six blocks to meet my girlfriends at a bar/restaurant with actual power, yes, in those self-same high heels I was previously so excited to be wearing. And if you read my last blog, you know how much fun walking those six blocks was.
Oh yes, I got a ride back to my car at the end of the night. And I wouldn’t have walked the six blocks at all – I would have left my rock star parking in the dust – if only my friend hadn’t promised me the bar was only “two minutes” down the street. My friend, who bikes all over Los Angeles. My friend, who I noticed was wearing flat sandals that evening. Because her “two minutes” was my ten minutes in heels.
Here’s the rule, people: It’s like dog years. One minute in flats = 7 years in heels.
Finally I arrived, hungry, annoyed, and a little freaked out by the blackout. I drank half of my friend’s beer (at which point I wholeheartedly forgave her for making me – GASP! – walk in L.A.), and then ordered another beer, of which I drank half.
Dinner was amazing that night, and it made up for everything; there is nothing like a getaway with awesome girlfriends, even if the getaway is just to a cozy restaurant in Venice. I had gotten mildly buzzed for a few minutes off the beer minus food, but hadn’t thought anything of it, and didn’t order any more alcohol for the entirety of the dinner.
Next morning? Pounding headache, dry mouth, and sluggishness. I was hung over.
On one beer.
I am SO not hip.
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)