I love a glass, or four, of red wine. I look forward to a yummy cocktail. I’ll take shots with you and get cray. As long as you have me in bed by 10pm. My inner granny dominates. She’s supportive of a rollicking good time and endless imbibing, as long as it’s done before 10pm. This elderly Cinderella turns into a sleeping pumpkin way before the clock strikes midnight.
As I’ve entered my 30s, I’ve become very fond of day drinking. Day drinking accommodates a good time along with my bedtime. I like nothing more than hopping into cozy sleepwear and snuggling in bed, with tea and a couple of cats, and perhaps a baguette, cause who doesn’t enjoy a late-night carb? Getting to bed by 10pm allows me to still get my eight hours of sleep and wake up at a respectable morning hour that makes me seem like a productive member of society. It’s really the best of both worlds. You can drink that bottle of champagne in the afternoon and hit the hay at a reasonable hour, sleeping off any hangover in time for a productive next day. And by productive, I may mean lounging in bed all day with a Double Double from In-n-Out, but the important fact here is that the idleness is hangover-free.
Because at my old age of 33, mama can’t handle a hangover. My metabolism, which was non-existent to begin with, has completely revoked its responsibilities and gone on a permanent vacay. Innumerable cocktails in my twenties used to sweat through my system, leaving me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day, with nary a pound gained, or dehydration experienced, ready to repeat the alcoholic transgressions with the setting sun. In my 30s, this glorious system has completely collapsed. Now, just making eye contact with a glass of wine is guaranteed to result in a three-pound weight gain, create a new cellulite thigh dimple constellation on an already craterous surface, and cause a two-day hangover. Ain’t nobody got time for that. So the solution, to at least the latter part, is day drinking!
My inner clock is a fierce guard of my bedtime and must have been Swiss-engineered because without fail, as soon as the clock strikes 10pm, my body gets into auto pilot mode. My arms start reaching for the pajama drawer, my eyes search for the bed, my teeth are ready for their brushing and my face for its washing, and if I’m not already in the comfort of my home, my mind starts thinking of viable excuses to bid adieu to any party I’m with. If none are forthcoming, the Irish Goodbye is trotted out. I could be mid-sentence, and once 9:59pm turns to 10:00pm, I excuse myself to “use the restroom” and hightail it home. If Michael and I happen to be hosting guests at our house, I excuse myself to “use the restroom” and barricade myself in the master bedroom. Michael is used to this nighttime ritual. If a guest happens to ask why I’m taking so long, he lets them know I’ve put myself to bed.
“But how? She just said she’s using the restroom.”
“That’s her code that she’s going to bed.”
“But she didn’t say goodnight!”
“And it’s not even that late!”
“What does that have to do with it?”
I can usually count on Michael to take over the hosting duties once I Irish Goodbye it from my own party. That man is a walking battery. He requires little sleep and has the energy to socialize through the night and into the morning. I rely on Michael’s gregariousness to mask my antisocial behavior and nine times out of ten, this works out splendidly. However, that one time out of ten that it does not leads to a house full of guests mid-drink and two hosts mid-sleep. This happened when Michael and I were hosting some friends over at our home for a weekend barbecue which started around 11am and consisted of revolving glasses of champagne for me and bottomless bottles of beer for Michael. With the extended duration of socializing that day, my internal clock rebelled and by 8pm, my auto-pilot kicked in and I Irish-Goodbyed it out of the dining room to put myself to bed. At 8:30pm, Michael thought that I was still mingling with the guests since it wasn’t 10pm yet and decided to rest for a bit. With the lights off in our master bedroom, he didn’t realize that the lump of blankets on our king-sized bed was actually me cocooned and in deep hibernation, so he crawled in next to this mound and proceeded to fall asleep. At 9pm, our confused guests realized that both hosts abdicated their duties and were fast asleep. Not our finest hosting moment.