Face palm

 [ crime scene / exhibits A and B / today, 6:37 PM ]

Guys.

Oh my god.

Out of pure humiliation, I would take this information to my grave, but there are two problems with this strategy:

1. It's just not my style #oversharingforlife!

2. You would inevitably figure it out the next time you saw me on my bike

And the bike in question? Yes, the one that was "stolen" 5 days ago. Read more here.

So today, after popping off the subway one stop earlier to run errands (I'm taking the subway due to my stolen bike, you remember?),  I caught a glimpse of a familiar shade of turquoise. Sure enough, there was my bike locked to a post right there on Bloor Street only a couple blocks from my house! 

The nerve of this bike thief! The effin' balls, man! 

Then I realized that the bike beside it, sharing a lock, was Alex's! Aha! Caught! As I prepared to wait it out, conjuring up an epic shame-on-you rant for the glorious moment when I would confront this bold character, it sunk in: the bikes were affixed to the pole with Alex's lock. The only person who could possibly be responsible: Alex.

I couldn't decide whether to be overjoyed or mortified. (I'm still undecided)

It's something we've done before. I'll paint it for you. Typical summer Saturday: bike almost all the way home from boozy night out, realize we are craving post-party greasy snacks, lock up our bikes outside the burrito joint, procure burrito, and start to walk home before remembering that we were, of course, avec bikes. "Oh haha, silly us." Honest mistake, though: BFB is walking distance to our house, and not somewhere we would normally cycle. AND, under the intoxication of refried beans and chipotle hot sauce, we're bound to lose our heads a little. This time, though? We left them there, walked all the way home, went to bed, and came to the only conclusion that made sense when our steeds weren't in their stalls the next morn. Stolen!

I'm a sharp tack. A bright bulb. I am! And I have a crazy-awesome memory. I'll remember a face forever. I can still recite the Manitoba phone numbers of childhood friends I haven't seen since the 80s. I will regurgitate with perfect accuracy the he-said-she-said of our marital disputes (of course to prove that I am right, as usual). It's just so out of character! Dumb. If huge amounts of booze were a factor, it would make sense, but we had, at best, a mild day-drunk at the Jays game that had a good 9 hours to mellow before our trek home. If I could use that as an excuse, I'd feel better.

I would have lied my face off about this. But you'll most likely see me whooshing around the city on my little blue flame and I'd have to sheepishly explain myself in person. Which would be worse.

After putting on colourful and excessively dramatic pouting and self-pity performances all week, you are no doubt having a pretty good laugh right now. You're welcome.

p.s. While I'm relieved that I don't need to shell out unplanned dough (or grovel pathetically for early birthday money from my parents), I was really starting to buy into my silver lining. Gotta say, I was kiiiiiinda looking forward to pretty new wheels...

(Oh, I am a treasure.)

Intervention.

It's Wednesday, and Alex is at the Horseshoe jamming with the boys of Dwayne Gretzky. I would normally be there, but not tonight. Why? I'm still dying of embarrassment. I'm still of the "I'll never drink again" mindset. Here's why.

I'm not technically addicted to anything, except maybe caffeine. And shoes. And curry. 

 

 

 [ My drugs. Photos via: shoptometrist, mrs.january, saffron ]

OK, rephrased: I am not addicted to anything that will kill me. Has anyone ever OD'd on fashion or spicy food? Probably not. In terms of "substances" (y'know, the ones that DO kill), I'm an in-moderation kind of a girl. I'm probably even on the lower end of the alcohol consumption spectrum among my peers. 

(I have no supporting statistics whatsoever)

But still.

I can't help but have flashbacks of some of the worst episodes of "Intervention" (another healthy addiction of mine) when I think about Friday night. Sure, drinking too much and falling on your face  once in a while is OK. Right? Even at my age? 12 years into my drinking-age years? I clearly don't need an intervention, then. We're all allowed the odd slip up, aren't we? Or am I just too old for this?

This is the question I've been mulling since Friday.

Via texts/tweets on Saturday and Sunday, I was consoled with amused pity. I even had three friend requests on Facebook. People still wanted to be virtual friends even though I was a complete trainwreck in person? I guess I was pretty fun prior to face-flopping. The message was clear: "It happens to everyone, Dayna."

But does it? I am racking my brain to remember the last time one of my late-twenties/thirty-something friends ended up face down in a bar bathroom. It's a college-age right of passage. Until we get our drinking legs, there are bound to be a few spills. But still, I know my rules by now (Slow down. Drink water. No shots. Avoid hard liquor. Say no.) and yet, probably once a year, I forget.

It happened so quickly, apparently. Let me paint a picture: 

Friday night. Mod Club. A gaggle of my Besties. Sweet Thing's last show of 2010. New shoes. Glittery skirt. Dancing. So far, so good.

Here's where it went wrong: I happened to end up in possession of the last handful of wristbands for the after-party. Obviously this made me momentarily very popular. Everyone felt the need to thank me with drinks (really guys, just a hug next time, kay?). Can one turn down an already-purchased vodka-soda? Problem #2: two of my biggest bad influences (also two of my favourite people) were there and we hadn't spent much time together lately. Obviously shots were in order, according to bad influence #1. Do you see where this is going? Yup. Jäger-bombs. 

The scene went from me having the best time of life to being too drunk to stand. Alex came to rescue me after Tyler noticed me slumped over in a chair and I had apparently just taken a huge flop on the ground.

Social-etiquette-fail. 

Fast-forward to the next day. I don't remember much except for flashes as Alex filled in the gaps. Horrifying memories were flooding back. Throwing up in front of half of the band and their tour manager (nice first impression, Day). I vaguely remember a fall. But then, to my mortification, as purple-y mystery bruises began to form, I noticed a conflict: the two grapefruit-sized bruises on my knees, a welt on my elbow, a bruise on my shoulder blade and a sore tailbone couldn't possibly have been sustained during the same fall. So, I wiped out TWICE?! At least twice. Good lord. 

Graphic...

(Take THAT, Miss "Medium Party" Cheesbrough :)

An incoherent outgoing text message to Alex ("take me hokebBBLpp" translation: "take me home"), cell-phone photo evidence (care of Alex) and stained-forever tights confirmed it. I was toast.

My hangover lasted two days. I slept through a photography class, hair appointment and dinner date. I was pretty much the most useless human being. Like, ever. I deserved the punishment, of course. 

While everyone was pretty forgiving and sympathetic (while enjoying a bit of a laugh), I can't help but still feel completely horrified. Telling this story on the WORLD WIDE WEB (!!!) is not meant to gain any sympathy or to glamourize the incident in any way. It's actually more of a confession/apology. And to seriously ask the question: DOES it happen to all of us? Or do I disproportionally end up this way far more frequently than the people in my circles? I mean, guys, I'm frickin' 31. THIRTY-one. 

(Please comment. I want actual recent humiliation stories. Your pain is my comfort!)

Analysis: I'm stubborn and strong-willed, generally. But I'm weak to the power of suggestion. 

Examples:

    Me: "I can't afford them. I shouldn't" (re: buying shoes)

    Mom: "Oh, buy them. I'll throw in twenty bucks"

OR

    Me: "We really should cook dinner tonight. We've eaten way too much take-out."

    Alex: (puppy-dog eyes)

In both cases, I cave. Waaaaaaay too easily. I guess my protests are hollow. It was the same on Friday. My efforts to curb the drink flow were easily rebuked. Not that I'm blaming anyone else for my stupidity of course. 

Conclusion: I'm just not really that convincing as a responsible person, I guess.

But I WANT to be. Really, I do. And at my age, I should be. New Year's Resolutions, perhaps?

In the meantime...

Formal apology: To birthday-boy Owen and the rest of Sweet Thing (except Alex - he puked on my birthday and this was payback), I'm very embarrassed and so sorry to have created a complete spectacle of myself at your party. To fellow party-timers, the Mod Club, our cab driver, my stylist, Mark & Elena, and everyone I met for the first time that night, I also apologize. 

Alex says it's unnecessary but I'm just licking my wounds.