Wow, I really am feeling 25

I’m sitting here in my bed severely hungover from last night’s ‘Freedom Fesitval’—a friend’s celebration of newfound singlehood and my re-commitment to getting laid at Oxford this term. Of course the festival takes place at a Gay Club, Baby Love, where I quickly learn that I no longer am the queen on the pole. I was either too drunk to pole dance or that I am seriously losing my powers, I think my shoulder muscles atrophied over my break to NYC.

Last night was a special evening, and just highlighted just how I should not be left to my own devices when I commit myself to ‘fun’—drinking four martinis at the pre-game bar, and then chugging absolute vanilla and diet cokes in between bathroom breaks to puke. I hit on the openly gay theologian at my college, who has a fetish for undergrad gay boys by the way—obviously a big breasted NYC gal just ain’t is type, by telling him that “It’s a pity your gay. You make a lot of the gals at college wish you batted for the other team.” But, in my defense, he is fucking hot. Forty something, graying hair, and a crisp British accent. And the fact that he is gay, maybe he is better in bed than his heterosexual counterparts.

Now, this behavior shouldn’t be too surprising, I mean, look at the name of this blog. But I have to say, that I am slightly ashamed of my antics, especially since I was supposed to stay in bed, read my Patterson novel, nurse the earache that has left me slightly bedridden, and be up early this morning for my doctors appointment so I could go on anti-biotics.

I didn’t make it to the doctor’s appointment at 11:30am. Actually, I didn’t even wake up until 1:30pm—just in time to walk into my review session for my exam on Friday—and then promptly walk out because I thought I was going to passout. Plus, reeking of booze, ciggs, and the stale breath that accompanies the aftermath of a night out didn’t really bode well for my teacher’s opinion of me. So much for my New Year’s commitment to take my studies seriously.

So, I’m hanging out in my bed, chugging OJ, just finishing up a pizza, getting ready for bed in a few because I really am sick and need all of my strength to teach myself an entire term’s worth of statistics by Friday at 2:30pm. Wish me luck.

Too bad I can’t flirt my way for a grade. Fucking A.

But, for the real reason you are reading, you want to know about my antics in NYC.

I have to admit, as much as I put down NYC, and said how much I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out, I was so excited to head back. First of all, home means being able to afford clothes, good food, and spa treatments. It also means sex. And, I was beginning to miss my family. I have never been away from them for more than three months, and Christmas was almost hitting the three month mark.

Flying on Christmas is an interesting experience. You have two types of airline employees that day. The first type are angry and miserable that they have to work, and the second type acknowledge it sucks to have to work, but make up for it with a jovial attitude and find camaraderie with their fellow employees who are stuck in the same shitty situation.

I got to the airport a bit early because I was trying to make a flight that was two hours earlier, so I could have some semblance of a Christmas with my family. The first guy who I spoke to at the ticketing counter was of the first school of having to work on Christmas. The asshole told me that I would have to rebuy a new ticket and treated me with disdain.

He was an asshole and I wished him coal in his stocking and that he catches mesothelioma from that coal.

When I went to check-in, I got this really sweet kid who asked me if I would like to get onto the earlier flight.

Now, this is Christmas in action!

He was nice, I prayed to God that he receives many blessings in the New Year.

As we’re taxiing to the runway, which means we had been cleared for take off, a flight attendant asks if there is a medical doctor on board.

After she made the announcement, we are no longer taxing.

And since this is Christmas, the entire plane is filled with Jews, and many hands shoot into the air.

They stop the plane, and attend to this woman who, I think, was just feeling feverish. The paramedics come on board, and the flight attendant announces that we are waiting for her to decide if she is well enough to fly.

My attitude, if you are well enough to make it to the airport, and onto the airplane, then you are well enough to sit in your seat for seven hours drinking screwdrivers and watching bad movies.

But, evidently, this woman didn’t agree with my rugged individualist theory. She asked to be removed from the airplane.

However, in the age of terrorism, you cannot just take someone off of the airplane without an investigation of sorts. After she was removed, airport security came onto the plane to check it and see if she left a bomb or something.

Which, since I am writing this, she didn’t.

And of course, I arrive into NYC only half an hour before I was originally supposed to.

My brother picks me up and takes me to Long Island, where our Christmas was relatively civil. This is not surprising since my mother didn’t get me any of her signature offensive gifts, such as a girdle.

Besides my friend Lauren coming in and surprising me for my bday, and contrary to the karmic stock I have with Bacchus, my birthday was terribly lame. I can’t drink like I used to. After having a boozy lunch at the Gramercy Tavern where our table conversation bordered on offending several of the surrounding tables, I was too tired and hungover to truly enjoy the co-birthday dinner a few hours later. Despite the many glasses of sangria, my heart just wasn’t into it. Instead of joining my friends at Henrietta Hudsons after dinner to relive the bygone days of our dabbles into bisexuality, Lauren and I found ourselves inside my friend’s apartment, watching tv and teasing him about a threesome that wouldn’t happen. Despite the shirt that came off, and accompanying back massage.