I am too “old” to “wedding”

Dear Self,

I am only just now able to stare at this screen long enough to write to you. After all, you and I have spent the last 36-48 hours hissing at sunlight or wearing sunglass inside the house. We’re not douchy. Just really hungover, self. I don’t know if you knew that. You probably assumed we were dying. Allow me, the more reasonable of our halves, to reassure you that we are not dying, just really, really dumb.

Just in case you thought that, just maybe, wearing your sunglasses inside the house was even a little bit cool yesterday, allow me to enlighten you:

 

Perception

Wonka 2

Reality

Wonka 1

Get it?

It would seem that we are entirely too old to do silly things like mix more than one type of alcohol in one evening or walk around barefoot. You f*cked up both of those things, self. Rookie mistakes. I thought you were better than that. I was wrong.

We both know that you are too old to party like you used to. For that matter, you are too old to “wedding” like you used to.

Before you start protesting that we’re not that old, I’m going to stop you. You’re right. We’re not actually that old. That said, we live the life of a quiet, stable octogenarian. We spend our evenings sipping Sauvignon Blanc and cross-stitching. We go on walks after dinner to aid with digestion. We fantasize – yes, literally fantasize – about going to bed before 10 o’clock and not having to put on pants in the morning. Truly, if we could get away with wearing a muumuu everyday, we would. You know we would.

We are best suited to Saturday evenings spent in Snuggies, eating fine cheeses, and watching Netflix.

Let’s face it. We are not a cute drunk anymore. Long gone are the days when we could giggle and half-whisper, “I’m so buzzed right now!” and it pass as silly and adorable and fun. I repeat: GONE.

Now, we corner people and drunkenly slur about the importance of proper pronoun usage when discussing or dealing with gender. We’re not wrong, self. We’re not wrong at all. But nobody wants to talk about masculine entitlement at a wedding. NOBODY.

Except us, apparently.

First of all, what is it with us cornering people and then dragging the mood way, way down? “Hi! Nice to see you! Are you having fun? Isn’t this such a great party? Filled with lighthearted revelry and joy? Let me talk to you about armored cavalry units in Vietnam! Did you read that article about the puppy born without his front legs and how sad he was until his family built him a little cart and now he’s only a little bit sad about not being able to jump on the couch but how they’re also building him a ramp so he won’t be sad at all anymore?”

Stop it. Just stop it.

Secondly, why can’t we ever remember that wine and weddings don’t ever mix? We have been to no less than 12 weddings in the last year. The ones at which we drank all the wine never led to good mornings the next day. Rather, they led to headaches, nausea, and threats of divorce.

We cannot afford for Carter to divorce us, self. We successfully deluded a man into thinking we are charming once. We won’t be so lucky again. Also, you remember what it was like to date. We don’t want to be out there again, self.

The rules are changing, self. When we were in college, the rules were simple:

1. Don’t die.

2. Get some nice dude you know to walk you home.

3. Don’t invite him in.

4. Eat a fistful of animal crackers and drink a big bottle of water before you go to sleep. (Because rule #1)

 

Now, however, the rules are long and many. And, after this weekend’s escapades, growing, apparently.

1. Drink more water than you drink anything else.

2. Wear close-toed shoes if you’re going to mainline all the wine. After all, if we’ve learned anything in life it is that door jams are not our friends. Neither are stairs. Or decorative armchairs. We should have listened, self. Then we might not be in this fabulously attractive boot from the doctor because we destroyed our pinkie toe.

3. Drink water more than you drink anything else. This is non-negotiable.

4. Eat the damned granola bar you brought. You have a gluten allergy. You won’t be able to eat the wedding cake. You might not be able to eat 50% of the dinner. That said, apparently, you will be drinking all the wine.  EAT THE LUNA BAR.

5. Pick a liquid and stick to it. If you’re going to be all naughty-feeling and drink bourbon, stick to bourbon. Do not think that your body is capable of withstanding a switch from bourbon to wine. It isn’t. You will regret it. For 3 days.

6. Did I mention water? Drinking it? Drinking lots of it? You forgot about it Saturday, self. I feel the need to drive it home.

7. You are and always will be terrible at The Wobble. Just come to terms with this. You can still do it, just stop making that ridiculous dance-y face.

8. You may or may not be responsible for your spouse now. Take turns being the responsible party. If it’s your night to turn into a shriveled mass of booze-soaked self-loathing, then your SO needs to stay competent and capable of the responsibility that is you. And vice versa. Communicate this arrangement early on. Stick to the plan. Or else you will end up as the one ordering pizza at 3am because you are only slightly more responsible, a task which you are just barely capable of completing. You will trip, you will break your toe, you will curse the day you got married and the marriage of the people who brought you to this lowly state tonight. And in the morning, you will both stare at each other and, with one eye squinted open, play “nose goes” for who has to go to the grocery store. Just because you’re stupid, drunkpants, doesn’t mean you don’t need groceries. We’re  f*cking adults, self.

I hope you’re happy with yourself, self. I tried to tell you that we should stick to the bourbon. I tried to warn you about putting wine down the hatch. I even tried to show you that we cannot, in fact, be taught how to “Dougie.” Look me in the mirror-eyes when I say this to you, self – you will never “Dougie.” Let the dream die.

And while we’re on this subject, stop making “Thriller” arms during The Wobble. Allow me to remind you:

 

Perception

Reality

Pull yourself together and bid a responsible farewell to your headstrong youthful stupidity. And say hello to fiber, probiotics, and the worst hangovers you have ever known to date. Let’s avoid that last one in the future, self? Shall we?

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. This is why we stay away from the animals after drinking.


Follow on Bloglovin

Related posts:

Comments:

  1. Jennifer says:

    YES. I love this. So many gifs and so many truths (sp?). It’s just so hard, because the wine is so good (and free to us!)… so, so good.

    • That’s EXACTLY the problem! The wine calls to me. Like, “I’m free and I’ll make you look super classy! Drink me!” And then I wake up the next morning and pray for death. What is it about WEDDING wine though? Normal wine? No problem. Wedding wine? DEATH!

  2. In the immortal words of Hank Williams Jr, “Hangovers hurt more than they used to…”
    Words to live by, my dear friend.
    Hopefully your poor toe heals quickly. I swear, I’d rather break my freakin’ arm than a toe. No cast, no sympathy, and people don’t understand how one, tiny shattered toe can take a grown women to her knees whenever she tries to even hobble to the head.

  3. your mother chris and i will be over shortly to discuss your behaviour. do not even bother to show us the toe! you shameful lush!

    but we still love you xx

  4. Oh this was a great post, made me happy reading it glad I came for a visit today

Trackbacks

  1. […] Nested humorously laments that she (and all of us really…) can’t hold our liquor like we used to, largely through Liz Lemon gifs. Any story that can be told through Liz Lemon gifs is a story worth reading. […]

Leave a Comment: