But time makes you bolder, children get older. I'm getting older, too.

It's Sunday. I had a reckless on Friday. I am STILL paying for it. Dearly. What's up, body? You used to be able to throw back whatever I tossed your way with little consequence.

The evening started nicely. Concierge event at Bryant Park Grill. I'm sorry, did someone say free booze, free food, and goodie bags? Yes, please. So after abusing the bar privileges there, we headed to Mean Fiddler. Which happens to be next to the Brooks Atkinson, home of Grease. Being the tool that I am, I "just happened" to be outside after curtain, so as to get a glimpse of Taylor Hicks. Hey, we Birminghamians must stick together. Don't judge me. Don't you dare judge me!

Photographic evidence of my ridiculousness...


Then it was back into the bar for countless more rounds. Which turned into dancing on the bar. (Seriously, who AM I?) Which turned into several rounds of free shots, because that's apparently what bartenders do for the girls who dance on their bars.

In skirts.
(Thankfully mine was a big, poofy one. Lots of coverage. Little leg. Hot.)

Somewhere before dawn, I made the drunken stumble to the subway. (Without my goodie bag from Bryant Park Grill! Blast! I was looking forward to my champagne, chocolate, and gift certificate!) A group of girls attacked me for directions to Union Square. Do I just have "I help idiot tourists for a living. Please. Ask me something." branded on my forehead? I made it safely to Brooklyn before deciding a nice 30 minute walk was in order, so I hopped off 3 stops early. I vaguely remember stopping for some Gatorade and being VERY aware that it was red and I was wearing white and should therefore be quite careful. And that's pretty much it. Until the next morning when I rolled over at 8:15, feeling like death warmed over and then placed back in the fridge to mold and rot for a few months.

I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I dragged my pathetic self into work 2 hours late. Of course, along the way I stopped at the deli 'round the corner from my apt for some coffee. Where I ran into Harold Dieterle (of Bravo's Top Chef), chatting up the deli owner's son.

Hello, Pretty.


Of course, I've known for awhile that Harold lives in my 'hood. I've been anxiously awaiting the day I can tell him his panna cotta is perfection and ask how he manages to live in a neighborhood with no decent grocery stores. But no. I have to run into him while existing as my least fabulous self. Le sigh.

I spent the majority of yesterday with a scowl on my face and a personal death-wish in my heart. And although I got a good 10 hours of sleep last night, my head is still swimming today. Dude, I'm old. It's official.