An open letter to myself: preemptive apology for future actions
I am writing you in advance of this evening’s happenings; because I am convinced tomorrow I will be too hung over to apologize. And its not that I wouldn’t apologize, because I would, but I have a sneaky suspicion that I will be doing one of several things including, but not limited to:
1) Hanging my head over the toilet….both in sickness and in shame.
2) Lying in bed groaning, desperately trying to think of yet another excuse to call out of work on Friday, even though everyone knows it was because I went out drinking and not because my basement flooded for the 4th time this month.
3) Waking up at 6am in some strange boy’s place, silently repeating “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” in my head as I attempt to stealthily gather all my clothing without waking what’s-his-name.
4) Least likely, but possible, I may actually be at work. The misery that I would endure if this was to happen is too great to fathom. I am cotton mouthed and nauseous simply thinking about it.
…and so on. So, you see, though I will be very very VERY sorry tomorrow, I will be much too busy to remember to apologize.
This isn’t going to be your normal Thursday. This is “Girls Night Out” Thursday. Once you slap a label on an evening, it heads downhill from there. Specifically because we have decided that it is “Girls Night Out,” the gloves are coming off. The title itself gives us license to have as many martinis are we want, shots as we want, beers as we want, delicious half-priced appetizers as we want, talk to as many boys as we want, and generally participate in behavior that makes us not respect one another in the morning. Why? Because its “Girls Night Out.”
I am going into this evening being very honest with you about what I am going to do. I am putting you at tremendous risk. I will be filling you with unhealthy foods such as chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, and (god bless it) Jumbo slice. I will be pouring copious amounts of gin down my throat, breaking up the monotony with our good friends Jaegermeister and Jose Cuervo. Hey, maybe even the Captain will show up. You never know.
I will be stumbling about and probably fall. One of the rules of “Girls Night Out” is that you have to wear your “cutest” work outfit, so that we will be a big group of girls in cute work clothes, all teetering on 3 inch heels that will eventually be taken off in the middle of the street, or in some instances, left at a bar. (As an aside, metro frowns upon riders with no shoes, no matter how pretty your toes are.) If the shoes are not taken off in time, I will most likely trip and rip the knees of the new cute work pants.
I will probably make a phone call or two you’ll regret. Ex-boyfriend; that girl I hate; Mom. I will not remember that in this age of stem-cell research, space travel, and digital cable that cell phones have caller ID and tomorrow will feign surprise and deny that the call was made.
Most likely, and this is the one I dread the most, towards the end of the night, I will participate in an embarrassing display with my fellow “Girls Night Out”-ers. It will probably start with someone saying how much fun they had which will turn into a drunken group hug/professing of forever friendship/”I love you guys!” moment of sheer embarrassment. I will not realize that I am doing this. You know I’m very anti-PDA. I will not recognize the scornful glances of other, more sober girls, who are thinking about how pathetic we look. I will assume that they are jealous of my outfit and probably yell something like “Ho!” or “Bitch!” or “Slut!” or “You have bad hair!” But I don’t mean it.
So, Self, I apologize for all that is above. One or more of these things may happen, and I am so sorry that they will. I am being forthright with you, though, so you cannot say that I did not adequately warn you.
this is in or around Dupont