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“I’m tired.” It’s probably the phrase I say the most everyday aside from “I have to pee,” (you do NOT want to take a road trip with me). It never used to be this bad. I joke that I’m narcoleptic, but the more I think about, maybe it’s true. If everyone who eats half a pie of pizza and feels sick after has a gluten intolerance, by the same logic, I’d have to assume feeling excessive sleepiness means I’m a narcolep! I learned, from some random website on the interweb, that excessive daytime sleepiness is the first sign of narcolepsy! So at night, my sleepiness is even worse. Put on any movie past 8 PM and I guarantee I’ll fall asleep before the opening credits have finished rolling. *As I write this, my eyes are slowly closing but I am attempting to stay awake late enough to go out this Saturday evening. The problem is, when I’m tired, there is not much that can make me snap out of it. The thought of putting on pants that are too tight and shoes that are too high definitely does not entice me. And, I’ve been to a bar. I’ve been to hundreds. So the thought of another night out with the goal in mind, as always, being to meet a guy, and the reality being that I’ll probably be too tired to strike up a conversation about my flashy-but-uncomfortable pants, is not as thrilling as the comfort of my plush, pillow top mattress.
I wasn’t always this way. When I studied abroad in Australia I went out for a record-breaking 9-nights in a row upon my arrival. 9 nights of drinking which each began with downing a full, personal bottle of champagne. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been more consistent with anything before in my life.
Don’t get me wrong; I still like to get drunk and party. Last weekend after a wedding, I passed out fully dressed (she says, proudly). These days however, those nights mainly involve celebrating the marriage of two people more fortunate than I am, people who now has a valid excuse for never going out again, if they so choose. But as a single girl, you are expected to be on the prowl every night of the weekend. As proof, my roommate recently found a gaggle of young gentlemen to come to our apartment for a pregame. Upon finding out that they were in Los Angeles just for the summer because they had one more year (of their terms in political office? Nope. Of college.) I proceeded to go back to my room and finish “Pitch Perfect,” which I was about halfway through before my apartment turned into a fraternity party. I was then interrogated into why I wasn’t going out with them. I was called a sponge. “You are too young to know about the sponge!” I thought. I admit that I am too young to know anything about the sponge asides from what I watched on Seinfeld. But no, I was referred to a “sponge” in the sense that I was sucking all the fun out of their pregame. Please, I know reverse psychology when I see it. “Do you have a boyfriend?” one boy asked, with a knowing nod. “I should have a boyfriend,” I thought. That would be the onlyplausible reason for me to not go out on a Saturday night. But alas, I do not. I’m single and I’m tired! And I’m tired of being made to feel bad about myself if I don’t feel like having my dry-clean-only silk tank-top stained with some drunk guy’s beer which inevitably ends up on me as it’s en route to spilling on the bar floor. Sometimes, I want to stay in, wear my Juicy pants from high school, and watch a Real Housewives of NJ marathon. And sometimes, I want to drink to excess, make out with a boy, and feel like shit the next day. But the latter is no longer the norm. And I’m okay with it.
*Upon finishing writing this post I turned on “The Hangover II” and couldn’t even keep my eyes open long enough to see Bradley Cooper wake up shirtless (I assume) with a massive hangover. But, I woke up the next morning, without a hangover of my own, and for that brief moment, not tired at all.