I should have known. I should have known by now that God punishes those of us who have lived long, fruitful lives, birthed children, and decide to act like it’s 2003 again.
A few weeks ago I got invited to a party in LA on a Saturday night. Somehow the stars aligned and I found myself in Beverly Hills at a fancy hotel drinking cocktails at 7pm.
I was so very, very happy.
When we arrived at the party I made the intentional, mature decision to stick with one drink for the night. No mixing. I stuck with that rule. We danced. We drank. We socialized. We drank some more. The night was so fun.
The next morning was so not.
…because it turns out that drinking JAMESON for 6 hours straight is not the best move for a mother of three who is sleep deprived and out of drinking shape…and clearly suffering some sort of residual effects from a previous head trauma, because what kind of decision-making skills are those.
Like, seriously. Life is choices.
We woke up at 9, about 5 hours after we went to bed. After spending 20 minutes making sure my head wasn’t actually going to explode all over my fancy hotel pillow, I called the front desk to ask if they had any Advil. They told me there was some in the “first aid kit in the mini bar”.
This was a lie. And after 10 minutes of crawling across the room trying to first find the mini bar (it was not, it turns out, in the safe, which is somehow where I kept ending up) and this mythical first aid kit, I called back and they clarified, oh no, there is no first aid kit in the rooms. And no Advil at the hotel.
But there was a Target a few blocks down the road. Target has Advil AND Gatorade.
In an act of pure willpower, I pulled myself upright, put my shoes on, and made it out the door. I had to take a break on the way to the elevator.
I also couldn’t find a hair elastic. I had to hold onto the ground to keep from falling over. Moments like this captured on film are a great way to remind yourself about who your real friends are. F U Juliet.
I didn’t see this coming because our fancy hotel room had, of course, wonderful climate control, but it was about 500 degrees outside. And very, very sunny.
Our hotel was located on La Cienega. For those of you unfamiliar with LA, La Cienega is one of those quintessential six lane thoroughfares you find in LA that is essentially a highway, except there are traffic lights and it winds through miles of strip malls and car dealerships instead of being a designated freeway.
It was hot. It was bright. It was loud. It was completely exposed. It was, without a doubt, the longest four blocks of my life.
i call this one “hell is la cienega”
I had to cross various intersections of La Cienega 5x. I almost lost my life 5x.
I am pretty sure that this walk took more out of me than either of the Half Ironmans I have completed, or any of the marathons I have run. This was a physical and mental feat of epic proportions.
But finally….FINALLY…I arrived.
Shangri-La.
I walked in, head pounding, stomach revolting, pajama pants clinging to my sweaty legs. Please God, I prayed, please don’t let me puke in Target.
I found the Gatorade. It was cold. I cracked it open in the aisle and poured that nectar of the gods down my throat. And then on my way to find the Advil, I realized that I was in the Beverly Center Target, aka the BEST FUCKING TARGET ON THE PLANET.
Even in my horrific, confused, mummified condition I couldn’t fight it. The racks of clothing, the kitchen appliances, the shark-themed onesies, the rows and rows of mugs (!)…all of it.
Did I have the wherewithal to go to the dressing room? Of course not. Did that stop me from throwing random articles of clothing and accessories into my basket? Of COURSE not. Did I absolutely need that pineapple-shaped teething ring for the baby? OF COURSE I DID.
…and before I knew it:
Let me tell you what that is not a picture of. That is not a picture of *just* a Gatorade and Advil.
And that, my friends, is how I ended up with this incredible pair of pants.
Rambulatory Ambulatory 