Andrew's Sunday Morning

When I woke up on Sunday, I knew two things. First, I had managed to secure myself my annual 'I-should-know-better-by-now' hangover. Second, this was not a room I had been in before. At least, not while sober. It took a few minutes, but eventually I located what I was fairly certain were all of my possessions. Bundle in arms, I slid out the door as quietly as I could, avoiding a maze of still-passed out bodies on my way out. 

The concrete stairs were still ice-cold on my bare feet. Shifting the bundle gingerly, I stood on the stoop and dug my phone out of my jacket pocket. The lock screen flickered 8:45 and I gave a silent shout of glee to discover it still had some battery left. A quick consult with Google Maps and a cross-check of the location on the email invite confirmed I was well and truly capable of making it to the group session I was presenting at. Bundle back in arms, I stepped off the stoop and walked up the block, scanning the parked vehicles. It only took a few minutes to spot my little blue hatchback. Navigating around a puddle of something far thicker than water, I saddled up to the car and began to tell myself it was all going to be okay. 

Which is exactly when I realised that the passenger’s door was already ajar. 

I felt the bottom of my stomach fall just past my knee caps as I yanked open the unlocked door and unceremoniously dropped the bundle into the seat. My eyes darted about far quicker than my still booze-drenched brain thought was wise, performing a mental inventory. Radio, there. Gym bag, present. Steering wheel, wait, what? How is the steering wheel missing??

The mind does funny things when faced with an unexpected elephant. Mine directed me to walk around the car and sit in the driver's seat, which I did, then felt about, as if confirming that the wheel was actually gone and not just, perhaps, suddenly invisible. But facts were facts and I had no choice. I groaned, then reached back into the pile to retrieve my phone. Even as I dialed Dad, I made peace with the knowledge that this little anecdote would make it into the family Christmas letter.

My gut was somewhere between squeamish and down-right nauseous when I got out of his car almost an hour later, hoping my breath was the only thing still reeking of booze. On the drive I'd discovered that while I had collected 2 shoes this morning, I actually had only one sock and the trousers I'd grabbed were not only not mine, they were also adorned with an unidentifiable stain that was a rather distressing shade of green. Dad looked me up and down as I clambered out and said "You look a pro!" then laughed far too hard at his own joke as he drove off.

'Yep' I thought. 'This is going to go SWIMMINGLY.' I sighed and resigned myself to the worst.

I was on the stage 15 minutes later. The lights were ridiculously bright. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat.

"I have always hated the 'a funny thing happened on the way here' joke" I heard myself say. I heard the audience murmur. I heard myself continue. "So I'm not going to say a funny thing happened. Because, it didn't. An 'I am a dumb-ass' thing happened. See the thing is..."

5 minutes later the audience was laughing. 

"Just remember" I heard myself conclude "Always own your stupid."