Monday, August 16, 2010

Need. Gatorade. IV. Stat.

This weekend three of my best girlfriends flew in from the far corners of Pittsburgh, Chicago, and England for a beach house extravaganza and all I can say is uuugghhhhhh. When that alarm went off at 4:30 this morning, I started re-evaluating my life because good gah almighty did I look, feel, and smell like a dirty dive bar bathroom floor. Needless to say, my dignity needs a good scrubbing.

Because we hail from across the globe, my girlfriends and I rarely get to spend time with each other. But when we do, WE DO. So when I woke up in my bed on Sunday morning wearing nothing but a bikini bottom with no recollection of how I got there and my last memory was crashing into a giant pile of garbage in a wheelchair, I have to say I wasn't entirely surprised.

Yesterday was one of those mornings filled with headaches, self-loathing, and egg sandwiches. You know, typical Sunday.

Me: what has become of my liiiiiife?

B: Come here for a second. Yep ... you're actually sweating booze.

Me: I'm never drinking again.

B: Uh huh.

Me: I mean it.

B: Right.

Me: Fine. I'm never drinking again until FRIDAY. Better?

B: Yep, that's a bit more accurate.

Now it's 7 a.m. on Monday. I'm wet from a humid run in the rain. I haven't showered yet. And I have the shakes. In other news, for the first time ever, I'm working in an office that requires an ID card to enter the building and it has made me completely paranoid. In all the other office buildings (one) in all the east coast that I've worked in (Philadelphia), there has never been any level of security, save locking the door if I was the last one out.

My current office building however, requires you to swipe your badge twice before you make it in to the actual office; once to get in the building from the parking lot and once to get in the office from the foyer. There is one desk between my cube and the door, so whenever someone who doesn't have an ID knocks to be let in, I'm frequently the one who answers. Naturally, every time someone comes to the door without an ID, I assume they're also going to bring in an Uzi and obliterate the entire office. I trust no one.

Copy machine repair man? Likely story. Delivering a lunch order? Do you have orders from the voices in your head to get stabby? Just filling up the vending machines? Please don't fill me with lead.

I always hear stories on the news about the dude who was fired for downloading porn on the company computer so he comes back the next day and goes on a shooting spree. And now I'm convinced it's going to happen to me. Why the sudden paranoia? I've never worked in an office that needed protection from outsiders before. Clearly this means there are outsiders who want to kill us all. Every time the door bell rings I feel the overwhelming urge to duck and cover under my desk. Partly because I'm lazy and don't want to walk to answer the door, and partly because I don't want to be the one to let the crazy killer in the building. Also? The people in TV shows who duck under their desks during shooting sprees usually are the ones who survive. Fact. I can't help it if my instincts for survival are stronger than my instincts for opening doors for people.

I'm not sure if it's the post-alcohol shakes that are making me jittery, the drop of body temperature from sitting in an office totally wet being blasted by the building's air conditioner, or the fact that I'm one of the only people in the office this early and I'm cowering from the front door. Either way, I need a shower about as bad as a hog farmer on bacon day. I'M OUT.


HMS said...

Ah, there you are.

Please do accept our invitation in the previous post, join us, and represent.

While you are considering, allow me to offer you on the house a consoling hair of the dog of your choice from our fine Taberna.

Becky Mochaface said...

I'm impressed you actually ran this morning after a Sunday full of the hangover.

Bridget said...

It was horrible, Becky. HORRIBLE. Just like every other one of my life decisions this weekend.

SuzRocks said...

I feel your pain. I spent all last week indulging, and then I had to wake up every day to attend a stupid conference. Sweating wine the whole way.


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