don't knock it till you try it: drinking obligations

Today's installment is from the archives, originally appearing to great acclaim in the Whittier Globe, sometime in 2006, I think. It's one of my favorites from the early "don't knock it" days. (In other words, I tried to write something new and original but it sucked, so this will have to do for now.)

don't knock it till you try it: keeping up with your drinking obligations

Today I woke up hungover for what I think was the 532nd time in my life. I first opened my eyes around 11:30 a.m.—way too early to be getting out of bed. I was super dehydrated, but the idea of staggering the seven feet from my mattress on the floor to the sink was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and passed out for another couple hours.

Like many other aimless young women with misdirected energy, I find myself, week after week, desperately attempting to keep up with my drinking obligations. If it’s not a happy hour for the latest person who quit their job, it’s a drinking dinner to discuss someone’s imminent divorce, or a rock show that requires the consumption of at least seven beers—because that time between bands is so tedious otherwise.

But recently, I seem to have lost the “drive” to keep up with my drinking obligations. In fact, in many cases, I am simply letting them slide. As a result, my social life has all but disappeared—which is really kind of depressing. So, in order to save my friendships and have something to write about here, I decided to once again devote myself to my drinking obligations. What follows is a review of a week spent “on the ball” (and off the wagon).

Monday: Although I managed not to drink anything the night before, I was pretty tired from restless sleep patterns due to the creeping dread that always overtakes me when the work week is about to begin. So I was already behind. I checked my messages mid-afternoon, and had one from my friend Jen. Monday is one of the few nights she has off, and she wanted to go out for dinner. Of course, I had to go—we’re usually on opposite schedules, and I hardly ever get to see her. I figured, since it’s a weeknight, I’d have “a couple glasses” of wine. Two bottles of wine, one Pernod, a beer, lots of expensive food and $120 later, I threw myself into bed, forgetting to set the alarm.

Tuesday: As if proofreading all day under fluorescent lights isn’t bad enough, this particular Tuesday I was under orders to “write copy” for a ShopNBC holiday postcard. I stuck it out until noon, at which point I lumbered out of the office to purchase something cheap and unhealthy for lunch. Poorly nourished, I came back to work and swallowed a Vicodin (left over from my Achilles tendon surgery). Painkillers are called that for a reason, you know. Did not venture out that evening.

Wednesday: Finally refreshed, I coolly and confidently accepted an invitation to a Whittier Globe “writers’ meeting” at the Red Dragon. I entered the establishment at 10:15 p.m., figuring we’d briefly discuss the upcoming issue, and I’d have “a drink or two.” Four vodka cranberrys later (cranberry has health benefits, I reasoned, and might negate some of the alcohol), I realized my contributions to the meeting were complete, and staggered back to my drafty studio apartment and the squirrels that live in my window.

Thursday: It had been awhile since I’d seen my childhood friend Katie (actually, since the night we went to Liquor Lyle’s when I had the flu, after which I couldn’t get out of bed for three days). We made plans to get together Thursday night for coffee or “maybe a drink.” We decided that coffee wouldn’t be wise (all that caffeine before bedtime is a no-no), so we arranged to meet at Café Barbette. We had lots of catching up to do, and stuck around for about four hours. I paced myself, however, and thus felt like a “together” young professional who deftly knows her limits. “Katie and I are totally growing up!” I thought to myself, with a mixture of pride and depression over behaving reasonably. This was a far cry from our college days, when we’d alienate each other’s male friends by starting fights with them at dorm parties. "Maybe I really can keep up with my drinking obligations," I thought to myself.

Friday: Though I was drained and exhausted all day Friday (despite keeping it together the night before, I didn't sleep at all, making all that temperance irrelevant), I knew there was no getting out of Friday night happy hour with Anne and Lindsay. Anne and I had both had recent birthdays, and this was to be our big celebration. I mean, I couldn’t skip my own party, right? We met at the downtown Grumpy’s for fried snack foods and beer. When a metal band started their soundcheck, we moved down the street to Maxwell’s. Eight hours later, after each of us had rebuked the drunken, smitten young man who separately proclaimed each of us “amazing” and “just what [he] was looking for,” I headed for home, confident that my friends still liked me.

Saturday: I think I told Jen I’d have breakfast with her, but I totally slept until one and didn’t hear my cell phone ringing. I should’ve called her back, but the effort was just too much for my swollen head. Then there were a couple rock shows that I’d been thinking of going to that night, but the idea of having to drink more Phillip’s vodka was enough to keep me away. And if you can’t tell, we have come full circle to the scene set at the beginning of this article.

So there you have it—a summary of a week of drinking obligations. Was it worth it? Uhh….well, the friends I saw have already called me about going out again this week! I’m doing way better at having friends now that I’ve re-resigned myself to bar life and stopped talking all that nonsense about “cutting down” and “working on my writing.” That stuff’s fine—if you want to go through life friendless and boring. My advice to all of you who have ambivalent feelings about your drinking obligations—suck it up, spend the $50 on the drinks and keep your friends happy. Or start hanging out with a group of pregnant ladies. It’s your choice.

don't knock it till you try it: office fashion

If there's one thing I hate about having a job, it's the clothes. Getting out of bed day after day to cobble together an uncomfortable, ill-fitting corporate costume is one of the mundane indignities that mars an otherwise-pretty-good life.

I just don't understand the point of it. As if seeing a bunch of thickening, middle-aged suburbanites dressed in suits instead of t-shirts will somehow distract from the brutal truth that we're all just self-serving, fearful animal-people, shuffling vacant-eyed through life.

One day I was complaining to my friend "Josie" about how oppressive office attire is, and declared my desire to work from home full time so I never had to hoist myself into another pair of sensible work pants ever again.

"You just need some nicer clothes!" she told me. "Even when I work from home, I always get at least a little dressed up. It's good for morale!"

I couldn't disagree with this more. I guess some people think that professional attire is going to make workers more productive. I suppose the idea is that playing "grown up" is going to trick us into thinking we're busy little junior executives and that we'll finish the report just that much faster.

Personally, I find dress codes condescending. I've worked in a bunch of different offices over the years, and all of them have addressed work-appropriate attire in their own way. From a low-standards code I could get behind ("All employees are expected to arrive at work in clean clothes--underwear on") to more repressive guidelines ("business professional" complete with photos illustrating dos and don'ts), I have operated under various regimes.

But never before I arrived at my current workplace had I encountered such virulent skirt bias.

A few days after starting my new job, I arrived at the office in a sweater, a black skirt, tights and boots. I didn't think twice about the outfit--it was the kind of thing I'd worn all the time at my previous corporate job.

Later that day I ran into my boss, "Kathy", in the hallway. She looked me up and down. "Well!" she said, as if she'd caught me in my hot pants and stripper heels. " I wish I had the legs to pull THAT look off!"

Ever since that I encounter I have to mentally brace myself anytime I wear not-pants in the workplace. For example, just recently I came to work in a generic brown shirt dress. Kathy spotted me immediately. "Cute dress, Shannon!" she said, setting me up. I said thanks. "You know, I have a similar one--from Ann Taylor, one of their cheaper things. I would never wear it to work, though."

I realize that interactions like this are meant to put me in my place--to indicate in no uncertain terms that I am expected to return to the office the next day in a lady-politician pantsuit. But stuff like this just encourages me. I get a juvenile thrill when I see Kathy wince at the sight of my bare knees or when her face falls after I inform her that I found the sweater she admired draped over a parking meter in downtown Minneapolis and that it was "only a little dirty."