Like I said, I had plans to go out with my friends that night. And go out I did, definitely harder and later than I should have, considering I had a 9AM walk to get to the next morning. We were only drinking at some dive bar in the Lower East Side. It wasn’t even a gay bar, so really not that much fun. But I had my annoyance from the afternoon sitting in my stomach, and I decided to chase that down with beer after beer.
I can admit to you now that I was pissed at you (childishly, I know). This was supposed to be my weekend. You had your hands full with your mom. But even with that, you’d managed to take over my plans. I’d spent the entire morning and afternoon commuting to and eating lunch with you and your mom. I got home and had maybe one hour to sit and relax before I needed to get ready to go out. And even once I’d gotten out, I couldn’t (shouldn’t) drink too much or stay out too late. Not with having to meet you and your mom early the next morning.
Somehow, even though I wasn’t hanging out with you, you had managed to monopolize my weekend. I know it isn’t fair to say. I realize and take full responsibility for my own part in this. I liked hanging out with you and your friends. So we hung out with them. And I neglected mine. It’s not like we never saw my friends. I’d say it was a ratio of one to six, my friends to yours. And I was okay with that. Usually. But this was supposed to be my weekend with my friends. And then it suddenly wasn’t any more.
However, powered by my anger, I tried to make it my weekend with my friends anyways.
All I remember of the night is playing pool with Shane and drinking a lot of Mexican beers. Tecate, I think. I managed to hope into a cab at 3:30AM or something like that. I got home after four, set my alarm for 7AM and crawled into bed where I passed out, the world pulsing around me as I tried to lay still.
I didn’t hear my alarm go off the next morning. By some miracle I woke up on my own and looked at my phone. I about died when I saw it was already 8:30AM.
That certainly woke me up quickly. I leapt out of bed. No time for a shower. It was a good thing we were walking. Hopefully it would give me time to air out before brunch. I smelled like a vodka punch stain on a couch a week after it had spilled. I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and went out the door. I was running so late that I didn’t even bother trying to take the bus crosstown. I hailed a cab and climbed in, willing it to move more quickly.
Only when I sat down in the cab did I take the time to feel my hangover. My initial panic at missing the race and irretrievably soiling my image in your mother’s mind had all but overpowered my hungover pains. Now that I had time to sit, my hangover hit me like a baseball bat in the face, knocking me back as it blurred my senses and split my head open. I hadn’t thought to eat or drink anything before leaving, and I’d only gotten four hours of sleep. I hadn’t been hungover like this in a very long time. It was going to be a terrible morning. But I just needed to pull it together for a few hours. Then I could crawl in my bed and die for the evening.
The cab got to the west side of Central Park and I hopped out, texting you my apologies and finding out where I should meet you. You all were also running a little behind, so I wasn’t too late. I found you and your mom and we started the walk.
Now five kilometers isn’t that long of a walk. Only three miles, and it was at a leisurely pace. However, with my hangover, I didn’t know whether or not I’d make it. Surprisingly, the fresh air and exercise revived me. Even though I looked a mess (pasty skin, bloodshot eyes, bloated body, limp hair poking out of my backwards cap), I thought I might just make it through the afternoon in one piece.
Optimism can be dangerous, though.
I made it through the entire race. I even managed to take pictures afterwards (ones where I look horrible, thank you for that eternal reminder). But then we headed downtown to meet your roommates for brunch. We hopped on the subway and everything went downhill from there.