I Can't Party Like I Used To

years ago, i received one of those "You Know You're Old When..." e-mails, and one of the criteria that ages you was when the words "i can't party like i used to" replace "man, i think i drank too much last night." another criterion was when you realize you prefer VH1 over MTV. check and check.

my body hated me on sunday, especially my head, which was gripped by a killer headache. i didn't mean to drown it in so much red wine the prior night. i want to say that i never poured myself a single drink and that my glass miraculously refreshed itself the whole night through, but i doubt that's true. i also want to say that i never bummed the cigarettes that compounded my hangover the next day, that they magically flew into my mouth and lit themselves and the only way i could wrestle free was by smoking them down to their butts, but that's probably not true either. the truth is: it was my evil twin sister. yeah, it was that bitch. i can't take her anywhere. man, i should be able to do better than that.

ah, fuck it. i got smashed saturday night -- me. i did some party hopping. ended up at juan's fabulous fete downtown. he had a pinata. he also had a bunch of beautiful people there, most of whom i didn't know. i did get to know his stash of red wine very well, however. we got to know each other so well that it spilled itself all over my crisp white shirt, which i promptly removed -- very clever ploy, that sneaky bottle. then i began dancing around like an idiot in the black tank top i had on underneath. i think i started quite the flirtation with a sexy asian girl on the dance floor who was dressed like a pirate in black capris and a striped shirt. i asked her if i messed up my party dates and it was really halloween (i'm smooth, ain't i?). she said no, that she had come from a theme party and that no one else was in costume so why would it be halloween? i countered with the brilliant: "i like your tattoo."

the straight women in the world can be thankful i wasn't born a straight man. i would be the 40-year-old virgin with absolutely no game. the one who would assault them with trite lines. and with my luck i'd probably also be born with sweaty palms. talking to women is as complicated as performing brain surgery -- one misstep causes paralysis. talking to men, however, is as simple as window shopping, where there's always that option to buy.

i had made my purchase earlier, so i shuffled across the living room dance floor toward my mystery date and away from the sultry pirate. i figure by then she had grown sick of my insistence that i should be the one wearing her rhinestone-encrusted eye patch. yep, i'm nothing if not smooth. mystery date shakes his head at me and sips his whiskey on the rocks. through my blurry vision he looks a lot like Momo. he drives me home, throws some covers over me and lets himself out. i think it was close to 4am. i awaken the next day with killer headache and raccoon eyes.

sunday held a day of suffering. no amount of water or B vitamins or juice suspended the grossness entirely. and the litany of other quick fixes i found when i googled "hangover cure" were too much for my bloodshot eyes to focus on. so i spent the day mostly bed bound, in my baby blue jammies, eating spinach soup and watching the second season of Ali G on DVD. i can't party like i used to.

respek.