Like all good folks in advertising, many of my long hours, blackberry-induced physio treatments waiting to happen, and priorities so jumbled that some weeks I need to schedule in number twos, are all justified by those one or two shining moments that make me feel like Don Draper.
You know…during the episodes where he drinks scotch and bangs all them 1960s hoes. Not the episodes where he’s all tortured and crying and flashbacking and blah blah blah. Those ones are lame. Let’s remember, advertising = banging hoes.
Last week we had the Ice Awards here in Halifax which I’ve heard best described as the greatest circle jerk in town – some might argue the second greatest but I haven’t done the necessary research on the matter. I’m waiting to hear back on my grant application though so stay tuned.
The Ice Awards happen when all the agencies come together to talk about how awesome we all are. And boy, are we ever awesome! We drink champagne, we laugh, we clap, and high five, we drink martinis, we laugh, we clap, we high five, we drink beer, we slur, we stumble, we make regrettable decisions, etc.
But this year the awards night was on a Wednesday which was absolute travesty. No matter how many times you say that Wednesday is almost Thursday which is almost Friday which is almost the weekend, it doesn’t take the edge off realizing you’re still drunk at your morning team meeting with 16+ work hours to go until you can go fetal for the weekend.
And that, my friends, is why I made the ever-so-wise decision to not go to the open bar, four storey (including a disco) after-party.
Yes. I still kind of hate myself for making that ever-so-wise decision.
I don’t know about you, but around the time I turned 22 I completely and utterly lost all ability to bounce back after a night out. Before, I could drink a quart of Jack Daniels, pass out in the girls’ washroom, map out my route home based on the fast food wrappers on my bedroom floor, and be ready for brunch by eight.
Not that that has ever happened.
(It has.)
Now, if I have anything more than three glasses of wine or martinis, I’m waking up in a dumpster in Tijuana three days later wearing a thong as a headband and looking for my right shoe which I’m hoping also contains my right foot.
Did I mention that I threw up on the most eastern and western points of the continent during the month of July? One involved jumping out of a moving cab in Newfoundland, the other involved coming to entirely by myself in a Latino bar in Gaytown, California. I’m a rockstar.
Instead, I got to my desk on time Thursday morning and watched the party-goers pour in with big smiles on their faces and a touch of Karen Walker in their steps. I have to admit, I felt a little bad that I didn’t have that same morning after glow and couldn’t share in those ‘remember when you were dancing with that creepy mccreeperson guy?’ moments.
At least I did until their hangovers and shame finally kicked in around 11.
I much prefer to save those moments for close friends, families and that guy walking his dog who watched me throw up outside that Pizza Hut once.