Being 41 Is Like Being Drunk All The Time

Back in my pre-kid days, I used to drink. A lot. Regularly. And I used to hang out with people who smoked pot. A lot. Regularly. Needless to say, we had a lot of fun. There was much laughter. And sometimes we thought we were being so brilliant that we would write our ideas down.

In the harsh light of a hangover morning, we'd look at our scribbles and say, "What the fuck? Why was this funny? Is this a letter or a number? Fuck this, I need Tylenol and McDonald's fries."

Since I have never allowed a hangover photo, I give you a picture of my favorite drink, the gin and tonic. 

Or something like that. Don't expect total accuracy, I was hungover, for God's sake.

Anyway, even though I rarely drink anymore, I sometimes get ideas at approximately the same time of evening. You know, the time I should be in bed, sleeping. Instead I am in bed, hastily scribbling down blog ideas that just occurred to me.

I don't turn on the light to do this, because that would ruin my going to sleep procedures. Plus, the switch is across the room. I don't write neatly, because I must hurry and finish before my boyfriend Jon Stewart comes back on the TV. It usually takes me a few days to remember I've written something down - like, I'll be sitting in front of the computer trying to think of a blog topic and suddenly remember that I wrote down a brilliant idea the other day. So I'll run up to get my notebook and flip eagerly through the pages, only to think. . . .

"What the fuck? Why was this funny? Is this a letter or a number? Fuck this, I need Tylenol and McDonald's fries."

I don't get the fries anymore, though.

You would think that after the first few failures, when running up the stairs to get the notebook has yielded nothing more than my being out of breath, that I would stop writing these bedtime ideas down. But much like I never learned that shots do not mix with four gin and tonics, I keep writing and hoping.

Even more disturbing than the notebook problem might be the bruise problem. When I was a drinker, I would occasionally get a bruise. I would never have any idea how I got the bruise, at least not until I mentioned it to a friend and she would remind me how I tripped over my own front step. Nowadays, I still get the occasional bruise of unknown origin. And (so far) my kids are no good at chronicling my embarrassing moments.

My final reason for believing that I am actually drunk all the time nowadays is that I talk to myself a lot. It used to be, when I would come home drunk from wherever, I would talk myself through my nighttime routine so that I wouldn't forget anything. Because make-up removal, tooth brushing and allergy pill ingestion seem like calculus when you're really drunk. But here I am at 41, talking myself through the errands I have to run or how to make cookies or whatever.

Is it possible that all the painkillers they gave me at my c-sections have never actually worn off? If I start drinking again, will I get smarter? Do I have a brain tumor?

Answer me, internets. I'm so drunk I'll believe anything you say.