The F*ck-It List Part Three: The Hangover

In case you missed them:
The F*ck-It List Part One: Summer of Redesign
The F*ck-It List Part Deux: Baseball, Beer, and Blackouts

There is no mistaking that feeling you get after a night on the town and one too many adult beverages. The distinct dryness of your mouth that resonates down the back of your throat like you swallowed a mouth full of cinnamon. The red, puffy eyes that actually make you contemplate whether or not that stupid cucumber trick really works. The pounding sensation that you can only find in the frontal lobe of your head or a club of fist pumpers. Oh yeah, and the fact that if you breath just hard enough, you just might make the people around you blow a positive on a breathalyzer test. You may have had your fun last night, but now … not so much. Damn, I needed some Pedialyte, stat.

As I wandered from my hotel bed and made my way to the bathroom, I tripped over the explosion of girl products and clothing that happens any time two or more women share a living space. My hands fumbled through the darkness for the bathroom light and I braced myself for what the light would reveal. Squinting, I surveyed the bathroom half expecting to find Mike Tyson, a tiger, and a chicken looking back at me. I turned to the mirror at what was left of my night of randomness. My brilliant make up artistry had been reduced to something that looked like it had been created by a five year old. Yesterday’s perfect curls looked more along the lines of Russell Brand’s. And I’m pretty sure if you looked up Hell in the dictionary you’d be staring at my reflection.

After marveling at the results of the previous evening, I crawled back towards the bed. Alicia stirred in the second bed, and gave me the one-eye once over.

“Dude, you look like death.”

“You’re no Monet yourself whore,” I laughed. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

I threw on my brand new Sox hat and my favorite pair of Marc Jacobs, and the two of us proceeded to do the walk of shame down to the hotel lobby to find the nearest breakfast buffet. The upside to hangovers is your total lack of care as to what you ingest. I just kinda threw a little bit of everything on a plate, animal fats and all, and positioned myself on the bar stool next to Alicia. As the two of us sat there, trying our hardest to put some kind of actual nutrition into our bodies, and double fisting water glasses, a weird feeling of sadness began to creep over me. It must have crept across my face too, because it wasn’t long before Alicia noticed.

“Dude, Sterg… What’s wrong?.. “

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, yesterday was probably the most fun I‘ve had in a long time. I got to explore a new city, with amazing friends, make new ones.. and maybe even found someone I am fairly intrigued by. But something just feels like its missing. You know what the problem with having fun is Alicia?? That feeling you get when you have to go back to the real world. It’s like coming off of an extreme high.. it's like…. A hangover. I won’t lie and say I remember everything that happened last night. Because in fact some of it is a downright blank. But, I get this pained feeling that I did something or said something stupid that’s going to.. “
My voice trailed off, as I looked down to find my phone flashing. One new message.

Ruh Roh.

The worst part of not remembering bits of your night is having people fill in the blanks for you, like a bizarrely messed up mad lib. And since my life follows in the grand form of Murphy’s Law, last night apparently had been no exception. I’ve always said that alcohol is one of the greatest tools man has when it comes to getting to know someone. It lowers inhibitions, loosens the mood.. but more so.. it’s a natural truth serum. As texts rolled in, pieces of last night began to fall into place. And the picture they were painting wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t really a fight, so much as a giant misunderstanding and far too much of the sauce. He called bull$hit on a lot of things, but mainly on how I choose to sabotage any relationship I seem to run into. It’s not like it’s the first time I had heard this. But coming from someone I saw as my equal, someone who ‘got’ my situation, and got… “me” made it sting all the more. I suddenly remembered the tears rolling down my face. Not because of him or anything he had done, but because he was absolutely right. This has been a reoccurring theme in my life for some time now. It was the same movie over and over again, only my co-stars changed: The heroine in search for herself, her place in the world, and possibly someone to share that place with. Instead of a happy ending though, the credits always rolled on her finding herself all alone and still lost. It was one of those movies you sit and stare at a black screen for a few minutes to digest, before you scream out.. W.T.F. Who the hell directed this piece of crap?.. I was supposed to be the leading lady, the superhero in my own life. Instead of being the Supergirl I was, I was actually more like Rogue, where any relationship I touched turned to crap.

Maybe I had the definition of hangover completely wrong. Maybe a hangover is that sinking feeling you get, when you know that you’re making all the wrong moves now, based on experiences you’ve had before. Regardless of how far I’ve come in finding myself, I’m still too guarded and protected to really let anyone in. So I do the only thing I know how to do. I shut the world out. Maybe I had met my match in this guy. He seemed just as guarded and just as jaded as me. And now we had both slammed our doors on one another, but for some reason hadn’t walked away. We just stood there, each of us behind our doors, unsure of what to do next. We could stand there and continue the stand-off, or maybe take the chance and let each other in. So I did the only thing I knew how to do… I walked away.

I remember the hurt in his eyes, the confusion as I assumed the stance: hands in the pockets, head hung down so the brim of my hat would hide my shame and embarrassment. Jesus Jennifer. What the @#$% is wrong with you?!!?.. How do we always end up here?.. Was it really all bad timing, or the wrong guys, or some fatal flaw within myself??... I consider myself a pretty positive person, and I always try to find the good in the less than sunny situations. But what was I supposed to do now?.. What are you supposed to do if you like someone, but you can’t get forget your past experiences enough to make new ones? Or worse, what if the other person was in the same boat as you. The S.S. Misery had taken me and my romantic life on much more than a 3 hour tour, and damn it if I wasn’t sick of it.

Then, I came back to the list. Wasn’t that the whole point of this trip… to make new memories?.. Maybe that was why I had such selective memories from the previous night. Taking in the sights of the city from the top of the Prudential building, people watching at the Salty Dog, dancing in the streets with five year olds at an outdoor concert. How bout the thrill I got from the crack of the bat as I watched the ball fly over the Green Monstah for the very first time? Or the warm feeling you got when he took your hand in the street, like no one else was there? I didn’t want this story to end the same as the others. And maybe it still has a chance.

A few hours later, Alicia and I found ourselves in a cab back to Hoboken. Our stomachs were still pretty unsettled and our heads were still banging, and the cabby’s driving really wasn’t helping matters. As I held my head to the window for some fresh air, Alicia rummaged through her purse and presented me with her camera.

“Here,”’ she said. “I think you need to take a look at these.”

I scrolled through the pictures of our adventure that read like a story book. Two crazy girls, in a cab in the wee hours of the morning. Flying on the small shuttle plane, and making friends with anyone who would talk to us. The top of my drink at brunch. Ok, my stomach turned a little on that one. Us at the Sox game with Short Round in the background. Or swaying to Take Me Out to the Ballgame and Sweet Caroline. Then.. there they were:

Pictures of the Perfect Stranger and myself.

“Do you know what I see when I look at that?” asked Alicia. “I see a real smile. Not the phony ones you have to flash when you’re ‘on’ or out in the spotlight, or the game face you put on to make sure no one knows when you’re really hurting. I see real happiness. Something I haven’t seen from you in a while. You just have to quit being such an @$$hole and start letting people in. You gave our friendship a chance, doesn’t this guy deserve the same from you?”

Sure enough, she was right. The smile was the most genuine honest smile I have seen on my face in a long time. It wasn’t a picture that I posed for, it was two people enjoying each others company. In that one moment, I saw what the rest of the world saw.

Sometimes we can’t explain why God brings certain people into our lives. We can’t explain or predict the timing, because everything really does happen for a reason. If we never had our hearts broken, never got lied to, never experienced pain, how would we ever know what it was like to be alive?.. Maybe sometimes life has to be a little ugly so we can truly appreciate how beautiful it can be. For Alicia and I, the list was the sign of a new beginning, a chance to do things right the second time around. Alicia had not only reinvented Boston, and Fenway, but she even rewired the way she felt about the Wingman’s real name. It was no longer a name that brought back pain and all those times of disappointment. It was a name that made you almost laugh out loud at his lovable antics and sense of humor. In short, it was a great start in the Summer of Redesign. And even I had been won over by the Wingman and his overtures. Maybe sometimes all you really need in life is a second chance. If I was willing to give cities, and places, and people second chances, who is to say I wouldn’t have a second chance at whatever this was with the Stranger?..

Alicia and I parted ways as we came out of the PATH tunnel, and I headed back to my place. Ah, home swoot home. For now anyway. I dropped my bags in the kitchen, and poured myself a big glass of water. My hangover was still in full effect, not so much from drinking, but from the sense that my fun-filled weekend was over. Looking back though, I really had made some amazing memories with equally amazing people. And just because I wasn’t in Boston, and they weren’t here, didn’t mean that the good times had to end. “Fun” really is kinda like a hangover, you just have to have to keep drinking up those wonderful moments that life hands you so you don’t forget those times when they can’t be there. As they say, the best cure for a hangover is hair of the dog. Maybe life is no different.

In which case I say… I’ll drink to that.

The F*ck-It List Part Deux: Baseball, Beer, and Blackouts

In case you missed it:
The F*ck-It List Part One: Summer of Redesign

Like two kids who were going to Disney for the very first time, Alicia and I barely slept. In fact, we met up so early that I think we even beat the Dunkin Donuts guy to work. One train and two cab rides later (it’s a long story…) we ended up at LaGuardia’s Shuttle Terminal. By all appearances, the terminal was in need of some major updates and didn’t exactly instill a sense of confidence in their flying abilities. In fact, I was beginning to have flash backs of that South Park episode when they’re flying to Canada to get Ike back. Regardless, we boarded our plane and an hour or so later, we touched down in Boston.

By ten thirty, Alicia and I were out in our weekend best, and ready to take on the city of Boston. Earlier in the day we had begun a scavenger hunt of things we wanted to do or take pictures of while we were in the city. You know - a group of sailors (that I’m pretty sure spoke zero English), a Yankees fan brave enough to wear their colors in rival territory, and a midget. If he’s foreign, we got bonus points. We accomplished half of it even before we reached Faneuil Hall, where we parked ourselves on some prime people watching seats at the Salty Dog. I ordered my usual water and Chicken meal, to which Alicia snubbed her nose at.

“Sterg, come on. You’re on vacation. Live a little.”

She was right. For those of you that don’t know me on a personal level and from what you read in my blogs, I maybe drink once a month. And when I do, I’m like a kid at Guitar Hero; I achieve straight rock-star status. I just try to do all things in moderation. That, and I’ve honestly been too busy to deal with the repercussions that come with a long night out. But Alicia did have a point, I was on a quasi-vacation, and in the city of Boston no less. To not have a drink it seems would be almost sacrilegious. And so we ordered up the first of many rounds of the day. This would not end well.

Alicia handed me her fork from across the table with some odd smelling breaded substance on it.
“What the hell is that?”

“Just eat it .. you’ll like it.”

“Right, that’s what he said. No way dude, that looks like fish. I don’t do fish. You know what I say, if it lives in the sea, it ain’t for me.”

“First of all it’s not a fish. It’s a Mollusk. Two… Come on, honestly. You’re not eight years old anymore; you can’t snub your nose at the finer things in life just because they might have a little seafood in them.”

I grimaced, but took her fork from her just in an effort to shut her up. I closed my eyes, took the bite, and marinated on it for a second. I then swallowed it as fast as humanly possible before opening my eyes. Much to my surprise, I was still alive. I had just tried clam “whatever the hell it was.” Now where was that barf bag?

About midway through lunch, I looked down to find my phone flashing with a New Message. I guess this is the part where I should probably fess up: I was meeting up with the Perfect Stranger. Yep, remember him from about two months ago? Well, as tough as our schedules are to coordinate, he had somehow ended up in Boston for the weekend, and my shoots had been postponed. So I figured… “What the hell, we’re only young once right?? Road trip.” (It also didn’t hurt that I had business in the area to tend to either, but we will skip that part for the sake of not ruining the party.)

The Stranger wouldn't be alone. We had each brought along our own teammates to keep things fair and less awkward. He brought along his best buddy, the Wingman, whom I had explained to Alicia was quite man-pretty, but had one giant flaw: He had the same name as her ex that had sent us on this journey in the first place. Besides that, if you want the real truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? The Wingman and I had met on less than great terms, mainly because he hadn't been too fond of some of my business associates, and the feeling had definitely been mutual.

When we stepped off the elevator at the top of the Prudential Center, there stood the Stranger, flanked by the Wingman, and several others. I didn't know the rest of the group, but the introductions certainly didn't take long. In fact, they welcomed us to their group with open arms. I found out one was a native Bostonian, and in charge of planning the day’s festivities for the group. And the other, a retired soccer player, who was still built like an ox even though his playing days had ended.

The entire group was hysterically funny, except for the Stranger who would interject every now and then, but more so just seemed to be taking in the situation and watching the interactions around him. Much to my surprise, it was the Wingman who impressed me and dare I say grew on me during our afternoon festivities. How on earth was this the same guy I met two months ago with his buddy in Indy?.. Sure, there had been plenty of alcohol flowing that weekend (on his end not mine), and he didn’t know me from Adam, but this time he was a whole different person. Now that he knew I was one of them, I saw him in an entirely new light. He was funny, charming, and surprisingly considerate. How on earth had I gotten such a bad vibe our first meeting? I felt like such a fool for having such awful impressions of him. Even better, he and Alicia seemed to really be having a blast too.

As we parted from our afternoon of sight-seeing and drinks, the boys headed off to go shopping, while Alicia and I retreated for a power nap. As usual, it looked like Alicia and I weren’t even the ladies of the group. The plans were to meet up sometime around 6pm and head over to Fenway. I was beyond ecstatic. Ever since I was little it seems, my Dad had always made it a point to take me a ball game when we were out of town, on vacation, on work, whatever. In the past few years especially, it has definitely become one of our bonding rituals. I had seen the ivy on the outfield fence at Wrigley, and Monument Park of the old Yankees, but I had never seen the Green Monster live and in person. So to say I was a little giddy would have been an understatement.

Of course, I still had my poker face on as we walked the last few blocks to the stadium. I’m a big proponent of having to act like I have “been there,” but sometimes I just can’t help it. Moving through the sea of Sox fans, we stopped along the way so the Stranger could buy a hat. The two of us perused through their selection before he finally settled on his choice. Then he turned to me.

“Yeah, you definitely need a hat too. Which one are we getting?..”

Really?.. The stranger was going to buy me a hat?.. As dumb as it seems, I am not really the type of girl to want or ask for much. I’ve just always been a huge fan of the “little things.” So often guys will make these huge grand gestures to win girls affections, when in reality most of us would just be happy to know you were thinking about us for a split second out of your day. I guess that’s because in my ripe old age I’ve discovered that sometimes it’s the little things that people do for one another that seem to really mean the most. Maybe that, or I’m just a huge romantic sucker. Regardless, I guess the Stranger was right. The natives here were awfully restless and I was about to step foot in their house, so I had to do my best to dress the part and blend in. I found an old vintage beat up hat that was just my size, and put it on over my loose curls and sunglasses. I looked up to the Stranger for approval to which he nodded. I’ve always loved how I looked in baseball hats (maybe because they camouflage the “five head” I sport nicely) which is why I wear one pretty much a daily basis. Now, I was dressed and ready for action.

The six of us made it down to our seats: Not too high, not too low… and unfortunately very close to the nearest beer stand. The Stranger and I ended up sitting next to one another, while Alicia and the Wingman ended up on the end of the row. I often bitch about being short and the fact it forces me to wear shoes that would make even the Spice Girls shake their heads, but being pocket-sized does sometimes have its advantages. And in old stadiums like Fenway, the advantage became completely obvious. Alicia and I seemed to be the only ones who didn’t have problems fitting into our seats. The guys on the other hand looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting down in a plastic chair for show & tell in Kindergarten Cop. So, having the clear advantage, I scooted over best I could and gave up my leg room.

Throughout the game, the Stranger and I would bump knees and such the way two kids on a playground would harass one another. I know, we’re real mature. We’d sing along to the songs on the loudspeakers, and even befriended the guy sitting in the row next to us, who eerily resembled the kid Short Round from the Indiana Jones movie. It wasn’t until the 4th inning or so that things turned a little serious.

“Just curious.. but why do you blog so much?” he asked. “I mean, isn’t it a little weird putting it all out there for people. I mean, I kinda prefer my privacy. Especially when it comes to dating.”

“I dunno, I’ve been doing it since I was in college. People were like, she always writes about sports. She loves sports; she must be the perfect girl. So why is she still single?.. So one day, I decided to open up and write about some things that were going on in my personal life, and people seemed to really relate. I feel like if I give people a glimpse into what I am really feeling and seeing.. and what my life is really like.. not all push up bras and cowboy hats, maybe people will get to see the real me and not be so quick to pass judgment. Besides I never out the people I am talking about. I write the story as it happened, or as much as I can, while keeping the people I care about safe, regardless of my standing with them.”

“That’s true but.. it's just.. Jenn, I think you’re an amazing girl.. you have so much depth but no one gets to see it because you’re so guarded and worried about everyone having preconceived notions of you.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said as I tilted down the brim of my hat and stared out into the eyes of the monster. “I’ve just always thought that if people are going to go around talking crap, I might as well make sure the truth is out there at there if they want it. Plus, I’m just.. I’ve just never been the type that was good with words. When given the opportunity to say something brilliant whether at work or to a guy I like.. nine times out of ten I will probably put my foot in my mouth. That’s why I write: there is always a backspace key, a second chance.. hell.. as many chances as I want to get it right. Besides, blogging is my therapy. If more people put down their thoughts on paper, psychologists would probably be out of work.”

Just then, the crack of the bat brought the two of us back to our reality. We jumped from our seats, just in time to watch David Ortiz’s ball sail into the depths of the outfield, and over the Green Monster. The crowd erupted with applause and cheering as our row did our own victory dance, with high fives all around. I’m pretty sure I even gave Shorty one too. The rest of the game went by rather slowly, because at this point we had two games going on: the one on the field, and musical chairs for bathrooms and beer. We stayed until just after the 7th inning stretch or so. Long enough to sway to take me out to the ball game and of course some Sweet Caroline. Bah.. Bah.. Bah..

As we walked down the ramps and exited Fenway, Perfect Stranger grabbed my arm to steady me in my four inch heels. But when we got to the bottom something weird happened.. He didn't let go. Walking through the streets, through a sea of curious onlookers, where some guys would have retracted, he didn't. I looked down, and PS's hand was in mine. I really couldn't help but smile.

Most of us hadn't eaten since noon, and were starved to say the least. Me on the other hand? Not so much. Still, we ended up at a restaurant, seated around a giant circular table. The guys had me in absolute stitches as they did things with breadsticks that would make the girlier kind of girls blush. But not Alicia and me. Instead we dove right down into the gutter with them, until we were practically falling out of the booth in laughter. Maybe it was the ballpark beer, or perhaps those wonderful butterflies I hadn't felt in so long, but the food as delicious as it appeared really had no appeal to me. So I really just sat and drank and reveled in the great company. This was probably the fatal error of my evening.

And then the screen went to black.

(End Transmission)

Bottom of the ninth....

Two Outs. Bases loaded.

Full count.

As the wind pushes about the clouds on the one of the last days of summer, another season comes to an end. You’ve stared many of these moments in the face throughout your years at bat. But this one just has a different feeling to it.

It’s that defining moment in a person’s life, their career, their sense of being that they know may be their last. You’re batting against time; you’re batting against the future, against age, against ending. You’re hoping for one more chance to see something that you have created, clear the fences. In your final strike, in your last at bat… What will you make of yours?

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure God created baseball, and all other sports for that matter as a distraction from the real world. It was mankind that made it the metaphor for our existence. We’ve written stories, made movies, built legends out of mere mortals that simply were better at something than the rest of us. But of all sports, baseball seems to be the one that best mirrors life.. I mean, why else would the make so many great movies about it? Aside from Hoosiers, and The Longest Yard… how many movies can you really think of that have football or basketball as a metaphorical subplot?... Eh, I guess boxing works too… but only if your Sylvester Stallone and are pretty gifted at playing slightly retarded (Except for the third movie, where he could have possibly solved a Rubik's cube, or at least tied his shoe all by himself).

As far as metaphors go, you really couldn’t get more accurate. The season is long. You fail more times than you succeed. There are tough decisions to make. And of course the man in blue is always screwin' you in some fashion or another.

Some would argue that baseball is simply just a way to pass time, and that its metaphor lies in the sports longevity. As the season wears on, the hits become less memorable, the errors seem less embarrassing.. the endless road games and home stands blend seamlessly into this giant arc. So in a game of statistics, numbers, and steroids, how do some just earn a living, while the rest become legends?

For years I joked about dumb jocks, and their lack of foresight when is came to making decisions. I can think of better ways to spend the governments money than chasing after athletes who make bad decisions, but then again… what do you expect when the leader of the greater free world so happened to run a franchise better than he did a country?.. And some may even argue that point. Regardless of preconceived notions, hitting a pitched ball demands such unclouded vision, immediate judgment, and precise coordination that one can hit well only in a state of naked awareness, of wakefulness without a single thought. It’s just automatic. It’s natural. Some things just come easier to others. While some, it’s a practiced skill.

We all have certain purposes in life, and roles we play in the lives of others. With corporate America running things these days, there’s no allegiance. No loyalty. It’s simply, “how can I get ahead of the Yankees?...” Such is life, where people will trade life long companions, and future icons at the chance of getting that hot young prospect. The one that will fill the seats, the one that will make the other teams take notice. Because that is what it’s all about right?... But guess what?.. You can have the biggest pay roll, the greatest bunch of individual athletes in the world, but if they can’t put aside ego.. and play as one… they aren’t worth a thing.

When the Boston Red Sox traded Babe Ruth, they sold him for $100,000 and a Broadway musical. 86 years of misery for a hundred grand and some show tunes???.... Its poor decisions like this that will haunt us for years to come. The idea that you let “the one” get away. That job, that love interest. All because it seemed like a good idea at the time, or it was just too much effort, or for simply a matter of convenience. Nothing worth having ever came easy, but in the end it’s certainly worth it. Imagine what the Sox could have achieved... Bad trades and decisions are a part of baseball as much as they are a part of life. And if 86 years seems like a long time to city of loyal fans, imagine what it feels like when you go it alone.

It’s in these last days, that you sometimes wish you’d hung it up when you were younger. They wouldn’t see you in such a weakened state. But the fact is they’ve been with you all the way. They stood by you when you went 0 for 10.. and you were throwing fewer K’s than the alphabet. Sure the drunks in the outfield would give you hell and harass your mother, but that’s only because they didn’t feel like you were living up to your true potential. And they should know. They’ll celebrate your victories, and mourn your losses, and let you know when your head ain’t right. But if they still care after all the hell you’ve put them through, then you know you’ve made it to the show. After all, fans don’t boo nobodies.

The point is no matter what life throws you, you got to always keep swinging. There will be times you will hit one to the fence, and times you will get called “Out.” Such is life, and it’s full of successes and failures. But dwelling on failure, only leaves you in a slump, and a bad slump is like a soft bed. Its easy to fall into, and hell to get out of. Accept your shortcomings, accept your flaws.. change what you can, and keep swinging. Revel in the fact you play a sport where three out of ten ain’t bad. And above all, never take your eye off the ball. Because the pitcher doesn’t, nor do the crowds of fans and naysayers.. so why should you?

So what will you do with your last at bat?.. seal a legacy or go down in infamy? What will they say about you when all is said and done???

I don’t know much about life, but I do know my sports. And though the players change, certain variables remain the same. You'll win some. You'll lose some.

And some'll get rained out.

All that matters is that you came to play ball.

We have been appointed umpires in a cosmic game of our own devising, and at any moment we choose, we can declare ourselves home safe.