I was so excited on Friday night. I was finally going to lose my Melbourne Social Life virginity. And I was going to do it with Lauren. Willowy, laughing Lauren that I’ve known all my life and was bound to show me a good time.
Chez elle, we pour some Hendricks on the rocks and catch up. Tonight has that Friday feeling that I have’t felt in so long. We drink up and head out to meet her friends: four witty, drinky bodys that are waiting for us at a pizza place on Greville Street called La something. They have espresso martinis waiting for us. I take a sip. It tastes like future regret.
An hour later I’ve warmed up. We are six in a car on the way to Rah Bar. I have no idea where I am. I follow blindly. I am the lamb lead to slaughter. Inside I am handed champagne which I accept graciously. Ladies do not refuse champagne, even when they are mixing drinks or haven’t been drinking for weeks or haven forgotten to eat dinner. The evening unfolded the way it did because I am a lady that didn’t refuse champagne. Or an espresso martini. Or a few more gins.
Rah Bar was pretty. It reminded me of England. There was a cute bar tender. Apparently I danced. And that is where my memory eludes me, where it spirals and blurs into colours and words that don’t make much sense. I was cheeky and witty. I’m smarter when I drink. I danced but I don’t know how or with whom.
In the early hours of the morning, the party split in half: party-enhancers and home-goers. Somehow, someone had some sense and I was bundled into the latter group. This was an excellent idea. About thirteen minutes later, I called for the car to halt. I was not feeling good. The car stopped. I opened the door but it seems I had drunk away my motor skills. I smashed face first onto the pavement. I saw blurred spots of blood. There was some concern over a broken nose. I bled, but I did not break because I’m hardcore like that. And so I was free to be sick. Like a lady.
I’m told that, in between, I kept exclaiming that I was too old to be throwing up on pavements. This is true. This is also ironically amusing seeing as I have spent the past few weeks pooh-pooh-ing and tut-tut-ing Australians and the way they go out and get wasted. That’s not how we do it in Europe, darling. Obviously I literally cannot stomach snobbery.
In the morning I woke up cheerful as a button albeit mildly mortified. Lauren’s beau, Giles, was a dear and brought us coffee and I started trying to piece the evening together. Devastatingly, I was hungover. I spent all day limp as seaweed, zapping through channels. I DON’T GET HANGOVERS. But they tell me that hangovers get worse as one gets older. Is this true?
The silver lining of all this is my mother’s reaction. I set her up with some Facebook few days ago and now she’s popping up everywhere.
Miranda: Oh, Lexie! It looks painful but to be honest, I expected a more graphic photo. Your eyeliner looks good! Alexia: ARE YOU HAVING A PROUD MOMMY MOMENT?!
Alexia: I was lucky. It could have been so much worse. Thanks for laughing at me when I gave you the drunk/sick/broken nose scenario that could have risen.
Miranda: All part of a night out, Lex! Think of the stories you could tell your grandkids. On the other hand, you won’t be able to hide your mishaps from your kids. Everything that goes on the internet stays on the internet.
Alexia: Hahaha, Mommy, you’re too cool!
Alexia: But you misspelt my name.