These are the moments I’ll one day lie to my daughter about:
That one time I found myself hooking up with a man too old for it to be OK (I’m apparently really turned on by people with lives even less put together than my own) on a pullout couch as my best friend’s boyfriend stood in the kitchen cleaning everything with a table runner and bleach. His sudden neuroticism and chatter paired with the sound of him running outside periodically to give random Asian women our cans to recycle didn’t quite stifle the sound of me losing my dignity, but it came close to it.
The time I answered my phone with a strange, almost Neanderthal guttural cry, only to blink into view the sight of my very Russian Chemistry professor and twelve nerds staring back at me. I’m going to cross out “waking up from a blackout in my 9AM class” on my bucket list.
When I found myself saying goodbye to a one-night stand at 3AM since he had to go clean up a “mercury” spill at a medical center. Apparently that’s what an “emergency environmentalist” does. He gets points for the elaborate excuse to leave ASAP, but he loses points for ruining my husband pillow in the act. Next time sir, neither my chest NOR my pillows need to be assaulted.
The time I found myself escorting drunken and high underage kids to the police station to bail out their friend. Somewhere between babysitting the hooligans and attempting to comprehend how long it takes to do “paperwork,” I told a cop I didn’t appreciate his sense of humor or lack thereof. Props to the high kids for asking if “there were any good munchie places open at 3 around here” and distracting from my resting bitch face.
When I allowed for an arguably drunk man to drive me and my best friend to Burlington from Boston, only to make him turn around ASAP and drive me back. I’m not sure which he appreciated least: my blue-balling him (I may have sent a few mixed messages that night), me loudly calling every friend in my phone and telling them my exact location “just in case this psycho tries to actually kidnap me and kill me,” or me calling him back 15 minutes after he left Boston the second time to tell him my friend left her phone in his taxi.
The time that I drunkenly made out with three girls and then found myself escorting all three to my house. As one girl made snow angels in the snow banks, another was literally THROWING the men trying to help her walk in front of moving vehicles, and the third was lost. I later found her in a McDonald’s, where I shared a small order of fries with her before I answered the calls of everyone who was frantically looking for us.
The time I threw up at work, in the bathroom of Faneuil Hall, and later in the bathroom of a Legal Seafood as my aunt and grandmother waited patiently for me with a plate of calamari and a glass of wine. That was my Mt. Everest.
The time in high school in which I waited until the last day to inform an elected Duke that I would not be his date to Winter Formal, so then at the school pep assembly he was introduced as the man “with 99 problems but a bitch as one.” As he pointed at me and the ENTIRE school laughed I did rethink and regret several things that day, namely my decision not to do my hair.
That time that in an attempt to escape from random men in a bar I decided with my friend that one us had to be in labor (because naturally dancing the night away with Long Islands would induce it) but did not narrow down the detail of which one of us. After sprinting through the bar screaming “SHE IS IN LABOR” and halfway down the street, it did dawn on me the poor decision we had made. But then I was cheered up by the fact that I had sprinted so far in heels without falling. Win some, lose some.
Every time I’ve ever blacked out and decided that everyone at the party NEEDS to know that I cannot and never do masturbate. There are some things in life that should be taken to the grave.