How Good A Friend Are Ya?
Earlier this week, my friend & I had a girl’s night out. Now, most of you probably do this all the time (party on a school night!), but I am sorely out of practice. So when 9:30 rolled around, my thoughts turned to, “Oh my God, I have to get up early.” And my body began to shut down (especially since I’m still dragging six hours of missed sleep through the week).
Somewhere during the course of my life, I read something that said the human body needs eight hours of sleep to function correctly, and that little tidbit of information stuck stubbornly to every nerve ending in my brain. No matter what I’m doing, I mentally calculate how much sleep I’ll be getting that evening, and if the sum is less than the required eight hours, I start to stress over the consequences of sleep deprivation. This is a MAJOR hangup of mine. I’m not sure how it developed, but I can even attribute it to part of my current marital woes (Not tonight, I’ll only get SIX hours of sleep!) Seriously, it’s that bad.
So anyway, I turn to my friend and tell her I’m ready to go. And so it began; the dance of drunkenness. Have you ever had a friend who wasn’t ready to leave yet? (”No! I’m not leaving! I’m having a GOOD TIME!”) I can honestly say, until now, I haven’t had a friend like that. I WAS that friend. But motherhood has definately mellowed me out a bit, and now I consider things like what effects a DWI could have on my life. And I practice moderation. But moderation was not something my friend was interested in at the moment. So I waited about a half an hour and tried again.
“K, I’m ready to go. I have to get up early.”
“So what? So do I! Why do YOU PEOPLE always want to leave early. I’m having a GOOD TIME. I’m not leaving yet.”
And so I sat, unsure of what to do. I thought about calling her a cab, but if the roles were reversed, I’d be pretty pissed off if my friend bailed on me. So I shook the keys threateningly at her.
“Seriously, K. I’m leaving. Right now. I need to go home.”
“Then GO!” Bluff called. Crap.
“K, SERIOUSLY, I am tired. I am exhausted, & I want to go home.”
“Then go. Don’t ever ask me to come out with you again. I’ll call a cab. Go home. You’re boring.”
I blinked. Boring? That was low. I knew it was the alcohol talking, but I was starting to get annoyed. It was now 10:15, and I was tired of all the droll bar conversations that surrounded me. I left the bar and went to sit in the car, hoping that she would follow me. After sitting in the car for fifteen minutes, I called her husband.
“Your wife is drunk in a bar. I can’t get her to come out.”
“Just go tell her to get her ass in the car.”
Hmmm. That easy. I returned to the bar to find her in a deep philosophical conversation with a man that resembled a serial killer.
“K, Let’s GO!”
“Get the F@$# out of here! I’m not goin’ ANYWHERE!” She punctuated the ANYWHERE with a stab of her finger that threw her balance off kilter, resulting in her pitching dangerously sideways on the barstool. Luckily, the serial killer was there to catch her by the breast and push her back into an upright position. At this point, I weighed my options. a) Call her husband again and tell him to come get his drunk wife. b) Call her a cab and bail. c) Wait around until she passed out (which didn’t look like it would be much longer, but this woman has phenomenal tolerance, and I didn’t want to risk that one) d) Try to reason with her e) Shove her off the stool and pray for head trauma.
I opted for A. I went back to my car and dialed the number again. Her husband answered the phone, clearly irritated.
“Just go get her & PUT HER IN THE CAR. If you want to leave her there, than leave her there, but make sure she’s not out of control. You can’t leave here there if she’s not in control.”
So I returned to the bar for a third time. This time, she was in a screaming match with some skinny barfly. Apparently, he had eluded to the fact that she may be a loose woman, in so many uncertain terms. A crowd was starting to gather around them. I tried to pry the drink from her hand, but she slapped at my hands and pulled away violently, lurching into the crowd and, thankfully, spilling her drink. She bore down on the rude bar dude, stabbing her finger dangerously into the air around her. I took the opportunity to snatch the drink from her hand while she was distracted, and began to pull her from the bar by the arm. Lucky for me, her self-esteem had taken a beating from the horrible man, and she was dejected enough to finally call it a night. I dragged her by the shirt sleve as she continued to yell obsenities at the man long after he was out of earshot.
I poured her out at her doorstep and went home, sinking happily into my soft, cozy bed. Early the next morning, my phone rang.
“I’m sorry if I was a bitch last night. I didn’t mean to be. I was f-ed up! Thank you so much for not leaving me there.”
“It’s okay. That’s what friends are for.”
“Well, you’re a good friend.” With that, she hung up and I smiled. I WAS a good friend. Sometimes the headaches of relationships are worth it. I rolled back over to look at my alarm clock and the mind took off.
Got home at 11:30, didn’t fall asleep until 12:00. K called at 6:30, which means I didn’t get sleep in a multiple of two (because a full sleep cycle takes 2 hours) and it was an hour & a half shy of eight. Now I’m short AGAIN and my whole day is all f-ed up……
There’s medication for this. .
January 29th, 2007 at 10:48 am
You did good. What I’m wondering is why that husband, after the second call, jump in his car and come get his wife? I damn sure would have had that been me.
January 29th, 2007 at 12:20 pm
YOU are indeed a good friend. Pats to you for being so dogged in getting her out of there.
And yeah, where in hell was hubby dearest? Next time, it’s HIS turn to bail her butt out!