Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk feeling woozy and discombobulated, which considering how close to death you felt all yesterday, Sunday, is the major improvement.
Indeed, you are still not entirely certain how you got back home from the country, although you suspect that your college roommate’s husband, Texas John, the strapping big investment banker with the bald spot and the bankroll and the boots, drove everyone back to the city yesterday afternoon in his BMW sedan. Which would have made sense, as he was the only functioning member of the household Sunday morning.
And to think, it all started so innocently on Saturday afternoon when your hosts suggested that everyone head over to this “little place near the county line” to have the few drinks, the little place which turned out to be the unironically named “Billy Jeff’s Arkansas Roadhouse”, which was somewhat surprising, considering this was deep in the Catskills.
“John loves the place”, Amanda said, “it reminds him of a bar in New Braunfels.”
And the next thing you know, it is midnight and you are standing on your chair trying to improvise several new dance steps to the David Allan Coe song, your balance hindered by the two bottles of Shiner Bock that you are holding (one in each hand) and from which you are alternating robust swigs.
And then the band starts up with “Whiskey River Take My Mind” which you decide is the excellent suggestion, shouting at the barmaid to bring you the shot of Jack Daniels and the shot of Jim Beam, (“because I’ve never had a threesome. Ha! Ha! Ha!”)
At which point the rest of the evening goes mercifully dim in your memory.
And now it is Monday morning, and you are on the second day of the two-day hangover, something you did not think was medically possible.
Oy, but you feel bad, and even though Amanda assures via phone you that nothing untoward happened, you vaguely recall snogging frantically in the dark corner with someone in bib overalls.
What you need now are shoes, beautiful shoes that will wash away the bitter taste of possible public humiliation; something respectable and refined and sophisticated and as un-country as you can find; something like the Calista from Michael Kors.
Ahh, that’s better.