it's come to light that i am nothing like a fine wine.

There is no way I've gotten better with age.  I think I'm more like the $2 boxed wine that has been long forgotten in the back of the fridge for about 6 months and once pulled out it's discovered that the liquid has taken on a congealed gelatinous form and smells like the bum you see sitting near the subway.

Being only in my mid-twenties, one would think that I would be full of energy, bounce back from everything and be rip-roaring-and-ready to go at any time. Well my friends, this is incredibly not the case. I'm pretty sure my foot still hurts from falling a week ago (yes, I know, you're terribly surprised that I fell). I'm also sure that on nights when I consume far too much alcohol, I can no longer bounce back the next day by popping some Ibuprofen with a gallon of water followed by a greasy meal and sugary soda. Instead, the Ibuprofen and water and accompanied by saltines and 2 days on the couch nursing my poor injured liver and head.

Gone are the days of all nighter's and subsisting on a diet consisting of Mountain Dew, Cool Ranch Doritos and some form of sour gummy anything. Now I look at a diet soda for a a millisecond and BAM, another few pounds find their way to my gut and when I make it to bed late, only allowing for a few hours of rest, not only do I have to consume several forms of caffeine throughout the day but you better damn well believe there is no way I am 1. going to the gym 2. cleaning house 3. running any errands or 4. doing anything other than going straight home after work, putting on my pajama's, taking off my bra and laying my ass on the couch.

How did this happen and for the love of all that is good and holy how do I make it STOP!? Those of you with spouses and kids, man, I can't even imagine.

So, it's a safe bet to assume that while I had a fantastic time last night hanging out and catching up with the wonderful Lindsey and Brian, and marveling at how big their daughter has gotten, I didn't crawl into bed until after 11, which meant my 5 am wake-up gym call? was replaced by a big fat snooze til 6:30 and while I should have gone to the gym, my aching body is still recovering from it's tumble and my liver from the Lambic I drank on Tuesday.

If you need me later, you'll most likely find me passed out on my couch in my PJ's, preparing for the visit of the ever fab Mel from London! But be forewarned if you pop in unawares, I make no promises to be wearing real pants.

None at all.


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