Side Effects

My task of not thinking was not as easy as anticipated. Actually, it was really difficult. And I know difficult – I am currently 2 ½ months into P90X with that sadistic little twirp Tony Horton with his catch phrase :“I hate it, but I love it!” NO TONY! I JUST STRAIGHT OUT HATE IT! His theory for fitness is ‘muscle confusion’ whatever the hell that is. Basically, it is screwing with people because as soon as you think you have the hang of it, the twirp CHANGES it! I can tell you one thing my muscles are not confused about – that is the amount of constant pain they are in!  Bah!  P90X is what I consider difficult and I have been doing it for 73 days, so who would have thought not thinking for only a week would be harder? I hate to report – it was!

It is even sadder to report that the stress of not thinking was so bad, I began to break out. And not just those pop’ em and 30 minutes later the pimple is but a memory. I mean those nasty, under the skin,stubborn Slavic chin hair must have an ingrown type of pimples that you cannot pop.  The ones where you want to use acid to burn a hole into the heart of it because it is just that irritating.  All this got me thinking about how unfair the world is.  I am 31 years old and I am still getting pimples? Should buying Clearasil not have ended in high school? I am now in the wrinkle stage, buying $50 eye cream so I don’t start looking like Cameron Diaz’s roommate from Something About Mary. Yet I am still getting pimples! It is should be one or the other – not both!.

But I am happy to report that the arduous task of not thinking was eventually completed on Thursday when I discovered the solution. Alcohol. Specifically, copious amounts of alcohol. It worked like a charm! I didn’t think at all for the rest of the week, mind you I also did not get off the couch. It began innocently enough. Eva and I met for drinks after work at a local restaurant that is crawling with those seen-to-be-seen types. After a few free shots from random men with fake & bake tans who were old enough to be my father, the night was on its way. One of Eva’s clients arrived.  Her client looks at me and says ‘I know you.” Ominous!  “My Dad knows your Dad.” Oh joy!  I still have not gotten a handle on how to deal with social circles associated with a man I am estranged from.  Then he gives me his name. Not only he know my dad, but his is dad is my fricken GOD FATHER! Which would make him my god brother?! Is that how that works? Who the hell knows! If I remember correctly, he is maybe 5 years older than I and the last time he saw me I was maybe 7 years old.  How the hell did he recognize me? It’s not like I advertised my last name. 

I should mention the reason we have not seen each other in 23 years is my father quit speaking to his father for some unknown reason. But now in the last few years they have started chatting and hanging out again. Does that not seem strange to you?  Stop talking for 20 years and pick up as though nothing had happened? Seriously, am I just being a woman about this?  Something would have to go terribly wrong for me to stop talking to someone for TWENTY YEARS. Not sure I would just become buddies with him again. Anyways, my new found god brother reveals all this when I am drunk.  Actually, I’m HAMMERED! Not sure how I actually got that wasted.  I was only drinking white wine… well a couple bottles,. Oh and then there were shots. Maybe that was it!  Anyways, I was suddenly in a situation where I had to bite my tongue as my seemingly nice god brother (who if I remember correctly was buying the shots), began talking about meeting my dad in Croatia and how cool it would be.  Even sober, I have no inner monologue and this situation was becoming a lot more difficult than my vow to not think this week.  I’m aware that screaming and combusting into sobs in the middle of a nice restaurant with an innocent by stander because he spoke nicely of my father is not acceptable behaviour. I looked to Eva for help, but at this moment she was drinking with fake & bake and starting a dance party in the middle of the restaurant.  I was alone to control my unbalanced emotional anger, which though I perspired through the entire event, I was successful (I think).

It could have been worse! I could have been Eva who doesn’t remember leaving the restaurant. Or the limo ride to the next bar.  Or who covered off our $200 bill that she told me that night she had settled. She woke up at 6am, half naked with me passed out beside her.  She was supposed to be at work and clearly had forgotten the entire your client is my long lost god brother story.

And then it came, yet again, at 6am. Another walk of shame. This time, WITHOUT GETTING LAID! Seriously, this is starting to become a habit and if it continues this way I might as well get into a religious habit and call it quits. Yet, the goal was reached.  By the end of the week, I was no longer thinking due to my helpful remedy. Unfortunately the side effects of my remedy stuck with me all weekend. Seriously I am getting to old for this sh*t!