Chapter Nineteen; Birth, Booze, and other Bad Ideas

One little two little three little Advil, four little five little six little Advil . . .

I liken the experience of drinking oneself into oblivion similar to giving birth.

I mean really, both decisions originate with similar thought processes that have many people expounding later, “Boy, it sure seemed like a good idea at the time!”

Coincidentally, both decisions not only start the same but are marked by strikingly parallel experiences: intense physical agony and the obliteration of brain filters that would normally prevent a typically smart girl from articulating primal emotional thought processes of the very idiotic and irrational variety. (i.e. threatening castration of the child’s father if you live through the birth. Or, say, oh, I don’t know, drunk dialing an old boyfriend at midnight simply to inform him he is an ego maniac. Whoops . . .)

Oh yeah. Big time.

The obvious disconnect in this comparison is that the birthing scenario does result in a bundle of joy after all that pain. The drinking one? Not so much. (Well, it can end with a kid too but let’s not walk that dog, shall we?)

The only bundle in my most recent intoxication situation had me wrapped in my comforter at the end of the night desperately wishing my bed would stop spinning. As for any joy, the fact that I did actually have some Advil was probably about the only “Whoopee!” moment I experienced the rest of the following day.

And finally, both adventures also lend themselves to amnesia. Because obviously in order to wash, rinse, and repeat we tend to forget the labor pains and the hangovers. Short term memory loss in order for a year or so down the road to once again find yourself thinking, “Hey, now that sounds like a good idea!”

No, I didn’t go into labor this weekend (thank God). But the bed just stopped spinning a little before noon and I am almost out of Advil.

Last night was oh so, not a good idea.