My liver hurts. Perhaps that shouldn’t be my first musing but there, I said it. I drank too much last night during an impromptu trip to Hoboken with my friend Sara, and her young friend Leslie, and her friend Leslie’s seemingly much younger friends ?, ?, J., ?, and ?. I am 8 years older than my friend Sara, and I suspect I was at least 14 years older than all of Leslie’s friends. I remember vaguely thinking: wow, these girls are young, and then a paranoid thought set in: “Wow these girls are young, and I wonder if they can tell how old I am?”
So then I put on my hat to make myself feel better, because let’s face it, this hat makes everything better.
And I made a lot more friends in the hat, because I’ve discovered that people like fur, even though they think they hate it. And who doesn’t like a girl wearing a trapper hat in the middle of a nightclub? (if that’s what this place could be called).
After one drink, Sara declared us, “Old.” I thought about it for a minute and I said, “Comparatively, yes. Let’s go to a place where we won’t be the oldest people by several decades.” So we went here.
Soon, I was charged with finding someone to buy us a drink, and I did. But then it dawned on me that perhaps another drink was not what we needed, so, mid-beer, we left.
Sara called a car service, but was propositioned by the taxi dispatcher who promised to love her “long time.” We hailed a cab instead.
This morning I atoned by making a mixed berry, almond and yogurt smoothie.
