Owning Your Shame

Wanna know what's fun?
Meeting your Girlfriends for dinner and drinks after work.

Wanna know what's not fun?
Being hung over the morning after meeting your Girlfriends for dinner and drinks!

Or, in this instance, just drinks.

Lots and lots of them!

And when I have lots and lots of them, I will inevitably decide it's a good idea to have a smoke. Or six. Upon reflection, each and every time, I always find it un-fkn-believable that I actually came to the conclusion that smoking would, indeed, be a good idea. Because, in the light of day......the BRIGHT light of day (Seriously......is it really this bright every day?!), the idea is clearly not a good one. And here's just a few reasons why.

The Smoker's Hang:

1. The smell. In your hair, on your clothes, in your skin; specifically, your hands. It's like you washed your hands in the ash tray! And no matter how many times you wash your hands thereafter, that sickly, stale smell of old cigarette ain't coming off. And it will continue to haunt you for the next 24 hours!


2. The taste. Blech! Apparently I wasn't so plowed that I threw all caution to the wind, because I distinctly remember being asked if I wanted another smoke and my reply was: "Jesus, NO! This one will ruin me I'm sure......." Indeed.

I've brushed my teeth five times already and I can still taste the smoke. I actually drank some Scope, straight out the bottle, hoping the mouthwash would, upon direct contact with my throat, burn the layer of smoke that I can still feel lingering back there! No luck, by the way....although I'm willing to wager that when I belch the Scope, it's gonna be minty fresh!


3. The charred lungs. See, as a Sober Brunette, the thought to have a smoke would never cross my mind. I find it positively disgusting. But more importantly (and here's where the whole un-fkn-believable revelation comes in to play), it is physically impossible for me to inhale the smoke into my lungs. But as a Plowed Brunette, not only will it be my idea to have a smoke, but once I actually get a cigarette and get it lit, I will smoke that cancer stick like a crack whore smokin' her pipe! I'll inhale deeply and keep running my loud mouth all at the same time. I've even been known to stamp out my cigarette on the bottom of my shoe......Classy.


Until the next morning. If the smell of my hair or the stank of my skin doesn't jog what few brain cells I have left awake, my first breath will. One word: Painful. I swear I can actually feel my lungs crackle with every breath, breaking free of the smoke cocoon that has just recently settled upon them. Marlboro Light, my ass. Light my lungs on fire is more like it!

4. The headache. It's a dull pain, right behind my eyes.....like a fog. Or, in this case, a smoke. It's akin to a sinus headache, only your sinuses are not affected. Just the pressure and sometimes a rhythmic throbbing. Like Indian drums. But without the chanting. Everything is hazy and must be done at a slower pace.
(And could you please stop talking so loud? And what's with the stadium lighting in this house? Is every bulb, like, a zillion watts? Jesus......)

(Editor's Note: I know what you're thinking........but this Hang is not due to the lots and lots of drinks. That Hang is a hangover of a completely different breed. A Drunkard's Hang, for me, always involves a headache. But it's also accompanied by its friends: Ralph, Wretch & finally, Dry Heave. My last encounter with the Drunkard's Hang was over a year and a half ago. My 20th High School Reunion to be exact. I'm pretty sure everyone gets a pass when a High School reunion is involved, but on the off chance this isn't the rule, I will fall back to: I take absolutely no responsibility for this debacle. I blame the asshole who introduced me to Purple Hooters and the idiot bartender who clearly had no business serving my (drunk) ass in the first place! That Hang was so shameful, it literally scarred me for life....or what's left of it! I now avoid any drink with Chambord in it (Chambord puts the purple in Purple Hooter!) and if I see a cocktail on the menu with any combination of "hooter" or "nipple" in its title, I walk away!)

So, what have we learned from this shameful exercise in owning my Hang? Well, off the top of my head (and through my thick layer of smoke induced haze!), I'd say this:


Sober Brunette knows better; Plowed Brunette knows nothing.


{Post Script~ Is it too late to add the following to my list of what I'd like to do in the New Year: Can I please fkn grow up and learn this goddamn lesson, already?}