Plus, I kept on getting distracted by shiny stuff like the disco ball and the go-go dancers. Because, you know my friends and I like to frequent classy joints.
Right after he asked me the usual questions about why I was in China and how long I’d been in China and how long I planned to stay in China, he insisted on knowing how old I was.
Because, I guess in Germany they don’t have that rule about not asking a lady how old she is.
Either that or he didn’t think I was much of a lady.
I don’t know what would give him that idea.
When I informed him that I was thirty-six, he got a shocked look on his face. “Oh, you don’t look that old,” he said as he slowly started backing away from me. Possibly to avoid my biological clock exploding all over him.How was I supposed to respond to that?
I entertained the thought of saying something like, “Why, thank you! I’ve had my entire face Botoxed. I mean, who needs emotions?”
Or, “Well, I’m technically thirty-six Earth years, but people from my planet don’t age as fast as humans.”
Or maybe, “I maintain my healthy glow by eating babies. Which reminds me, it’s snack time! Have any idea where I can get myself a baby?”
But, instead, I just went back to playing foosball with my friends. Because, as I said, my friends and I like to keep things real classy.The truth is I don’t feel like I’m thirty-six.
Not that I really know what thirty-six is supposed to feel like.
I mean, I still have no idea what I’m doing with my life.
I don’t own things that a thirty-six year old person should probably own – like a car or house or retirement plan or a hairbrush.
And, not to brag or anything, but I still wear the same size pants that I wore when I graduated from high school. Which, if you knew me in high school, you’d know this wasn’t bragging at all as somewhere in my junior year I decided I’d just start eating French fries and Little Debbie snack cakes for lunch everyday. Plus, it didn’t help that, unlike most people, I seem to have been born without any metabolism.But I have started to feel my age in little ways.
Like, I can’t drink as much as I used to.
Well, I can and I sometimes do, but I really, probably shouldn’t.
You see, back in my twenties, I was one of those annoying people who never got a hangover. While my roommate would be moaning and groaning the morning after a big night out, I’d be jumping out of bed at seven o’clock ready to start my day. After I cleaned the entire kitchen (making sure to bang all the kitchen cabinets along the way) while blaring Japanese dance music, I’d then start bragging about how I never got hangovers.
Now, I can see how this behavior might have been just the teensiest bit annoying.
It’s a good thing my roommate was usually too incapacitated to move as he probably would have strangled me.In the past few years, things have changed, though.
Now when I have a big night out and have had a bit too much to drink, I am pretty much unable to function the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And really who has that kind of time to waste?
Definitely, not me.
I mean, judging from the look on the German guy’s face, I’m about three steps away from death. So it’s really important I use my little time left on this earth for living… rather than, say, hiding in my dark apartment, groaning and hoping that someone will show up at my door bearing gifts of hash browns and strong coffee.So, in an effort to limit the amount of time I spend groaning and generally being useless, I’ve decided I really need to limit the amount of alcohol I drink on big nights out.
Not that I have many big nights out.
In fact, I’d say I have very few big nights out because, you know, big nights out require my putting on pants and leaving the house. Neither of which I happen to be a big fan of.
I suspect the fact that I don’t go out that much is part of the problem. You see, when I do go out, I’m like, “Look! I left my house! And I’m wearing pants! Let’s celebrate!”
And, then before I know it, I’ve had more drinks than I can remember. And I wake up the next day feeling like death and vowing to never put on pants and leave my house again. (Of course, I could always vow to stop drinking alcohol, but that seems a bit drastic.)So one of my many resolutions this year was to limit myself to only two drinks when I go out. This goal seemed both moderate and reasonable.
And even though I’ve never been much of a fan of moderation or reason, I’ve done a pretty good job of sticking to my resolution so far.
Well, except for that time I went to karaoke and this happened:
It’s possible I had a bit too much to drink then.
Oh yeah, and when I went to Hong Kong I found myself drinking wine coolers outside of a 7-11 at two o’clock in the morning, watching drunk people dance in the streets. I should probably mention here that most of those drunk people were my friends. I should probably also mention that it’s possible I was one of those drunk people.
But, I think we can all agree, that what happens in karaoke or Hong Kong doesn’t really count.This past weekend in Shanghai, I knew it was going to be hard to stick to my two-drink maximum.
First of all, when your friend informs you that she’s planning a big birthday bash in Shanghai, you feel it’s kind of your duty to show up ready to party.
Especially when that friend is this girl right here:
Secondly, we were going to be in Shanghai, where they have fancy restaurants that serve fancy drinks. The establishments I frequent in Wuxi are not exactly known for being very fancy.
In fact, they’re not even known for having walls.
Or fancy stuff like napkins.As to be expected, I can’t say I did a very good job of sticking to my resolution.
I’m blaming our friend, MaryAnne, who started things off by taking Jeannie and I to this super swish Mexican restaurant for dinner. Not only did the restaurant have real napkins made out of real napkin material (and, not say, toilet paper material), it also had a happy hour special of two-for-one drinks.
So I ended up having four margaritas. Because I figured I would only count the margaritas I was paying for. Plus, they were made out of tamarind and passion fruit and a bunch of other stuff I couldn’t pronounce so they were practically smoothies.
I’d like to say that I stopped drinking after that.
But, uh, does this look like the face of a girl who stopped drinking?
Uh, yeah, I didn’t think so.Miraculously, though, I managed to wake up the next morning without a hangover.
This was a good thing, because even in Shanghai, no one will show up at your door bearing gifts of hash browns and strong coffee.
You have to walk all the way to the restaurant to get it.
Which means you have to put on some pants and leave the house.
And that’s no easy feat if you have a hangover… especially at my age.What about you? Do you feel your age? Or do you feel like a twenty-year-old on spring break? (Of course, if you ARE a twenty-year-old on spring break then you have an excuse. I, on the other hand, should probably start locking myself in the house.)