I long for the days that I was able to roll out of bed after a less than sober night and spring into immediate action; cooking my gals a greasy breakfast and cringing with them over our less-than-ladylike antics the previous night. Nowadays, I’m lucky if I can utter anything more than a mono syllable. Springing out of bed post- bender is still nothing but a dream *stares wistfully into the distance* in fact, rolling out of bed and landing on the rug is even a little ambitious.
A wiser woman would know that there’s a lesson to be learned here somewhere right? And that lesson is…I JUST WON’T GO TO BED AT ALL. NO, that’s not it…oh right, I should stop getting unmercifully pissed and learn to drink responsibly. Which, to be fair, I am capable of. My problem is that nowadays I’m lucky if I go on two or three nights out in the whole year, so when I do…well, the four horsemen of the apocalypse actually follow me around, you know, just in case.
So lesson one of my thirties?? NO MORE DOUBLES. JUST….NO JANE. BAD JANE.