Song – Paloma Faith: Stone Cold Sober
I’ve just had the loveliest weekend away with my gorgeous friend Kelly at her Uni. (I say she’s gorgeous because I know she reads this blog – she told me yesterday. Oh, and also – she’s gorgeous. SO GORGEOUS!) I was visiting her because a. I’m horribly nosy and wanted to see what her life was like and b. She was singing at a bar on Saturday night and I wanted to stand at the back and go ‘Wooh’ at random intervals, because that’s what friends do.
We went to the SU bar, and to her friends’ houses, and to bars and pubs. And it was amazing. And I didn’t get drunk! So by what strange phenomenon did I have a good time?
It seems like the only way people my age can claim to have truly enjoyed themselves is if they woke up with someone else’s vomit plastered to their face like some icky stamp of approval, or if they can only consume burgers and aspirin for twenty four hours afterwards. I don’t really understand this phenomenon – I never have – and I’m starting to wonder why so many people subscribe to the point of view that fun is only to be found at the bottom of bottles or under the tables of clubs.
The only times I’ve got absolutely shitfaced to the point of vomming, I can’t recall heaving brightly-coloured chunky fluids down the toilet and thinking ‘Wow, I’m so amazingly cool. Let’s do this again tomorrow.’ I’ve mostly thought ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, I want to die, and why are the chunks PURPLE? Is that my INSIDES?!’ Similarly, I didn’t feel envious at my house-party the other night when I heard one of my male guests peeing and hurling at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not tee total. I’ll enjoy a Pina Colada or seven as much as the next twenty-two year old, but I only want to enjoy it once, (on the way down), and I want to remember enjoying it rather than just being told about it by text the next day. I like getting drunk, I just don’t like getting to the point where I’m trying to convince someone they’re ‘shhhpecial‘ even though I have no idea who they are.
I’m proud of knowing my limits and sticking to them. I like being warm, giggly and thinking I’m the best dancer in the world – I don’t like forgetting the name of the drink I want, tripping over my own self and waking up with a tongue with so much fur on it I’m thinking of getting it spayed. So why does that make me the least convincing young person in the world? Surely I can have a good social life and a fully-functioning liver? I really don’t feel like I’m missing out.
And yet, somehow, I am – according to nearly every other person my age. I can’t explain why this is – but I can explain how much I enjoyed dancing until 3am at the SU and walking home sober in the freezing cold. I can explain because I remember it, and because it ended with Kelly and I in bed laughing ourselves breathless about something ridiculous, and waking up ready to do it all again the next day.
If you can tell me why this night was somehow an epic failure because neither of us fell over, did the bad thing with someone we’ll only add on facebook the next day, or woke up smelling like a tramp’s armpit, that’d be great, thanks. I thought we had a rather marvellous time, myself.