The first glass always tastes the best. It’s the stress reliever. I become calmer. Anxieties flutter away. A new surge of confidence blooms. I’m funny. Interesting. Happier. Then there is a second glass. I starting to feel hilarious. Maybe I am quirky and cool. I deserve a Third. Doesn’t matter that I promised myself only 1. It’s downed. I’m feeling sexy. Fuck it, I am sexy. I love my eyes. My waist and my shoes. I have another. My friends are laughing with me. I’m going to start writing tomorrow. I am going to start my exercise plan. I will be a size 6 in time for my birthday. One more to celebrate my future success. In it goes. I daydream about the best seller I will write. My bikini body. Then a fifth drink, 6th, 7th and then I have wound up here. In the girls’ toilets. Staring into the mirror. My spark is gone. WTF is that in the mirror? I’ve aged. I look tired, worn out and unhealthy. There are wrinkles that were not there last year. Bags under my eyes. I squeeze a couple of inches of gut. How do I keep ending here?
I stare until I can’t anymore. Years of partying are etched on my face. I am only 29 years old. I pass my friends. Straight to the bar. Shots. Cocktails. I want to stop thinking. The anxiety lost after that first glass has returned 10 fold. Standing at the bar I pull my phone out and stare at my phone. Nothing. Suddenly I’m lonely. Hungry for attention. The guy I was eye flirting with is now talking to a blonde. She looks happy, together. There doesn’t seem to be cellulite growing on her legs unlike mine which is forming an uncanny resembles the Moon on either leg. You couldn’t grab her gut because she hasn’t got one. She looks younger even though she is probably my age. I rub my belly. Fuck of gut I wish. Maybe I should try Lipo? The spark is gone. I hope it returns in the Cosmopolitan I’ve just ordered. It doesn’t. Neither does the next one. The spark has gone along with my memory. Bye Brain. Bye consciousness. Goodbye savings and hello a morning shame spiral. Misplaced items and a headache so splitting my first action of the day is to scurry for paracetamol.
Quitting alcohol is a bitch. To drink or not to drink has become an ongoing debate in my head. Before 4 pm I’m fine. I’m ready to become my ‘best self’. A glowing, organic fitness freak who loves celery and jogging. I can quit. Then 4:30 pm happens. After an almost full day at work, I am stressed. Therefore I want wine. The gallery has been void of clients – again. It’s so lonely here. Which probably explains why I ’m still texting my ‘fuck boy’ ex in all hours of the mornings and eating a gargantuan amount of cheese. Although I have always been very partial to Brie. But this is different. All my vices are in full swing. All the time. I am so conflicted and then I receive a text.
“Happy hour is on till 7 pm – Morrisons – come straight from work”
Saying no will make me feel lonelier. Particularly as it’s Christmas. But saying yes will make me feel sad later. I cannot win. Therefore I buy more cheese. Sit in the stock room scrolling through Instagram encouraging my body dysmorphia.
Since I wrote my last few posts I have stopped drinking, re-started, stopped and then completely given in to the holiday. It’s the season to binge my friends tell me. And binge we do. There are parties most nights and even our quiet nights in each of us girls drinks a bottle of wine each. At least. It’s actually quite mad.