Last weekend saw me perfectly sober both Friday and Saturday – a feat which has not transpired…well…since I don’t know when. Thumbs up! Who knows if it’ll happen again anytime soon.
I must say, though, it was quite lovely.
I barely remembered what it was like to wake up before noon on the weekends, or have a non-shattered brain, or to not hang my head over the toi toi.
Thank you, thank you AMC Movie Theaters.
It all began a few months ago when my friend Melissa mentioned their Best Picture Showcase. 13 hours of sitting in a movie theater + 5 movies = a big enough excuse to forego the sauce Friday night and a perfectly excusable reason to fall fast asleep asap that night.
While I still ate my calories instead of drinking them (Twizzlers, Mini-Eggs, Peanut Butter M&Ms, Raisinets, Junior Mints, and unlimited popcorn), I’d take a full-of-junkfood-belly over a full-of-beer sick tum any day of the week.
By the time the last film ended it was almost midnight. (Any ideas or inclinations I had of going out had been squashed by the third movie.) I was tired. I was irritable. I’d eaten too much popcorn. I just wanted to go to sleep.
Have I ever mentioned the fact that I lovelovelove living in the Village? Of course I have. I’d sing its praises from the top of the Empire State Building if given the opportunity.
What I sometimes forget, though, is that other people love the Village too. That it’s a destination for tourists and music lovers and NYU kiddies alike. And that said inebriated Bleecker Street-goers are obnoxious, ignorant, annoying and awfully belligerent.
All these shenanigans can be pretty goddamn annoying when you’re stone-sober, donning bright yellow wellies, barely able to keep your movie-screen-fried eyes open.
As if the wasted dude who couldn’t keep upright on the train wasn’t bad enough (he crashed into me), no. No. Then I had to wade though a sea of drunks on Bleecker (good thing I had my rain boots on).
The shouting, the screaming, the incessant slurring. The asking for directions, the shouting in your face as you pass by. The pushing and shoving and smashing and toe smooshing. The mega-macho-man showdowns and the kitty-biddy-cat fights.
There is nothing more irritating than being in the vicinity of a drunkards when you’re sober.
They bear down on you, break you into little bitty balls of frustration and anxiety.
Their shrill voices envelope and suffocate your rapidly fraying nerves.
Their stupid swaying aggravates and frustrates.
They don’t MOVE out of the way. They’re big, oafy cows. Apparently alcohol desensitizes brains (among other things).
I just hope that, when next I am intoxicated, I have the wherewithal not to be that girl.