Drinking in your 20s vs. Drinking in your 30s

Dear God, Allah, Jesus, or anybody up there who is listening,

I solemnly swear to never drink again if you can cure me of my current condition. I am obviously dying, and I am positive without your help, nothing will ever make me feel better again. I have tried every remedy known to man, but as the day drags on, my condition is getting worse. I am afraid I am not going to make it.

Send my parents my love.

I know I have vowed to stop drinking on numerous occasions in the past, but I assure you this time, no truer words have ever been spoken. I even mean it more than last Sunday, and the ones before that when I promised to give up the devil’s juice for good.

Please cleanse me of my ailment, so I may begin feeding the homeless, fostering shelter dogs, and working on a cure for cancer.

                                                              Thank you in advance,

                                                                                                   30 something year old me.

Dear God,

Please send pizza because I spent my rent money on tequila shots.

                                                                      You’re the best,

                                                                                                20 something year old me.

My bargaining with various higher beings probably began shortly after my 30^th birthday party and has continued nearly every weekend since.

Although it is hard to pin point the exact moment your body decides to turn on you, around 30 it takes away one of your most prized and under-appreciated possessions…the ability to drink all of the alcohol with little to no consequences.

If you are still in your 20s, enjoy it while you can because I promise, you will miss it when it’s gone…especially on Day 2 of your hangover.  You could blend up a Gatorade, Pedialyte, and Advil smoothie, and not even that could save you.

Go ahead and forget about that “hair of the dog” shit too because the sheer thought of trying to cure your hangover by drinking more alcohol will make you vomit, again. Oh, and in case you were wondering how many times a person can throw up and not actually die, the limit does not exist.

Delayed recovery time isn’t the only thing that drastically changes as you get older. Let us not forget about...

Pre-gaming. In your 20s, this is an ingenious plan to get drunker, faster, and for cheaper.  In your 30s, this idea is stored in the part of your memory with your crush on Freddie Prinze Jr.  You have probably forgotten he even existed up until this moment.  Same is probably true of purse flasks and Jagger bombs.

I’d like to say by the time you turn 30, shots become a thing of the past, but many wasted Sundays have taught me otherwise.  However, when you are in your 20s you take shots in order to get wasted, and when you are in your 30s, you take them because you are wasted. Intoxicated o’clock is the only time these evil fuckers seem like a good idea. If only your sober self could tell your 2 am self to avoid them like the plague, or worse, well liquor…

Remember your previous excitement in your 20s when you “won” a free open bar party? Now older and wiser, someone would have to pay me to attend one of those shit shows. If given the option of drinking vodka out of a plastic bottle or my toilet, I may “Orange is the New Black” it…as long as it’s Ketel One.

Also, if you’re anything like me, your preferred type of alcohol in your 20s was “cold,” but in your 30s nothing excites you more than craft beers and cocktails.

Maple Bacon Ale?!

Lavender infused egg foam with honey comb Hibiscus leaves?!

Bring. It. On.

If it has six or more ingredients, I am all over it… just as long as I can drink it somewhere with more chairs than there are people.

Clubs? What are these things you speak of? Are they similar to pre-gaming? I am not familiar…

Since turning 30, my favorite drinking spot has become my couch. The guest list is exclusive, there’s no dress code, and the wine selection is extensive. And who said there are no advantages to aging?

Stop saying you live in Chicago if you are from the Suburbs.

I grew up in the Midwest in a small suburb, and I always knew the minute I turned 18, I was going to move to the city. I am of course referring to Chicago and not New York like some of those ‘Hills’ bitches implied is the only one.

I watched numerous friends go away to college while I chose to attend one in the heart of downtown. Many moved away in search of warmer weather or better opportunities, but I remained. I toughed it out every winter (although the snowpocalype a few years back really tested my patience), and I paid my bills through a series of less than desirable jobs (one word: Wrigleyville). To this day, I still fall asleep to the sweet symphony of sirens every night.

Why would I want to leave? I live somewhere where every year I get to go to the beach, ice skating, and apple picking all in the same place. There is always something to do, including a street or food festival nearly every weekend, and I can get just about anything I need/desire delivered within an hour at time, day or night. Hellooooo shitty pizza at 5 am!

Some of the most beautiful architecture you will ever see is in Chicago, you can eat all of your feelings via the most delicious pizza and hot dogs, and our Art Institute is rated the best in the entire world (take that Louvre’!). Even George Lucas wants a piece of that sweet museum pie when he builds his here in 2019.

I could literally go on and on, but to summarize: Chicago is one of the greatest cities in the world. With that being said, if you don’t reside directly in it, stop claiming it as your own. I am talking to you Schaumburg and Naperville.

If you live in the suburbs, stop saying you are from Chicago.

I have been living in the city for over a decade, and I will tell you first hand, there is no greater way to piss off a true Chicagoan than to say you are from Chicago when you live in a suburb nearly an hour or more away. Calling it “Chi-Town” is a close second.

Call it “Chi-raq” and I will punch you in your throat.

I know many of you lighting your torches at this very moment will argue, “It is just easier than saying, “I live in (insert random shitty suburb here),” but if you have to pay a toll to get the city, you clearly don’t live within it. Therefore, claiming you do is about as authentic as Drake’s street cred.*

*(If you have been living under a rock, google “Hotline Bling.” Yes, mom. I will show you how to use google next week.)

See, there is a certain amount of bullshit one must encounter when living in a major city regardless of how amazing it is. If you do not experience these things, you don’t get to have your cake and call it Chicago too.

You don’t have to deal with the fresh scent of urine on your morning commute, nor do you spend a decent part of your day trying to distinguish between an actual crazy person and an irate homeless person, and you sure as shit don’t have to worry someone will call “Dibs” on the parking spot you spent hours shoveling out. Those of us that live here feel like we earned the right to call this wonderfully crazy place home so if your favorite bar is in a strip mall, stop claiming to be part of our exquisite madness.

Middle (wo) man.

Amy Schumer recently posted  half naked photo of herself on instagram igniting a wide range of responses from my social media friends.  Said photo features Amy wearing nothing but her underwear, a pair of heels, and an awkward look on her face while drinking coffee. The thing that separates this photo from a thousand other ‘Oops, you accidently caught me enjoying some Starbucks in my Chonies’ photos happens to be her stomach, bearing a few fat rolls in plain view.

I personally love Amy (/hate her for living out my dream of making dick and fart jokes into a career), and I thought the picture was stunning. Not only does she looks gorgeous, but I wish her level of self esteem was taught right along with your ABCs. Personally, if I were asked to take a picture while sitting in my underwear, I would call upon the photo shop Gods and use a wide range of angles that would make MySpace jealous.

While many called her brave and congratulated her on her lack of fucks given others rated the photo a big fat yawn claiming she is only very slightly overweight and not some new fat girl role model picking up the pieces Lena Dunham dropped years ago.

Either way, the divide was clear; some friends though she was promoting a realistic representation of women while others thought she was a bit self-congratulatory on having a little extra around her middle and being confident enough to show it off. (Then there were my feminist friends who thought she should put some clothes on because a woman is “so much more than her body,” but that’s a whole other blog, and I have to work tomorrow…)

Basically, what from I gathered, it seems Amy is not fat enough to be accepted by the fat girls, but too fat to be accepted by the skinny ones. She is smack dab in this wonderful range I like to call to home, which others may refer to as “average.”

This got me thinking, where does that leave us normal girls?

We don’t get blogs or shares on Facebook or any representation really. There are runway models and plus sized models, but none in the middle ground. There are millions of us who walk the perfect line of bacon cheeseburgers and skinny jeans, but no one is depicting our slight muffin tops or ability to look 3 months pregnant for extended trimesters.

Sure, there was a Dove campaign years ago, but that came and went quicker than a Kardashian marriage. Plus, those women were photographed from flattering angles in perfecting lighting (not exactly the kind of picture you un-tag yourself from on Facebook for sporting the fat arm)…

It seems all we get is a constant state of confusion about whether to squeeze into the smaller size and tell ourselves we will lose five pounds or buy the bigger size and pray we can shrink it, but let’s be honest; we’ve been wishing that those five bastards away since college, and the only things that ever shrink are the ones you go through great lengths to keep from doing so. 

I realize Rome wasn’t built in a day so it’s going to be awhile before all the different size variations of women are going to be represented across widespread media, but until the world catches up, for the love of God can someone just start making some Smediums and Marges?

My Six Reasons, Bitch.

Recently my Facebook feed has been blowing up with an article titled, “6 Reasons My Husband and I Probably Won’t Make It To Your Event, and Why We Don’t Want You To Take It Personal.”

Despite my better judgment, I went ahead and read it. I have friends with kids who constantly cancel plans (although not all my parental friends are like this), so I thought maybe, just maybe, this would share some insight.  I also once believed Britney and Justin would be together forever so clearly I have been mistaken.

Before I continue, I suggest you read the article so you can pick up what I’m putting down…

I have to say without a doubt, this was the biggest, condescending piece of shit I have ever read. This woman not only came across as a pretentious asshole, but I actually found myself feeling sorry for her husband who is apparently not allowed to leave the house without her permission (or only after she has made sure his company isn’t questionable).

If you are a parent, I am sure you found yourself agreeing with many points of this article (as I have heard loud and clear on my Facebook share of this post), but if you are childless like me, you probably thought this woman sounded like a C U Next Tuesday.  

I wanted her (along with those singing her praises) to see how this article truly sounds from the other side. If you have kids, stop and think about if it was your child’s first birthday, and the important people in your life wrote a similar article about why they won’t be there/why you shouldn’t get offended.

Can’t imagine it because your friends are decent human beings? Let me help paint you that picture with my rebuttal aka…

“6 Reasons I Probably Won’t Make It To Your Kid’s Birthday Party/Other God Awful Event, and Why I Don’t Want You To Take It Personal.”

1: I don't have kids!!! This one sounds too easy, and I am sure people are sick of hearing it; but I feel like most need to! Especially those with kids. If I wanted to be covered in spit up, snot, or other bodily fluids that aren’t my own, I’d have children…or do porn. Or both! They both sound equally as disgusting and horrifying to me although one is at least a paying gig that would allow me to sleep in on the weekend.

2: I am tired!!!! No, not like normal tired. I’m talking the type of painstaking exhaustion where you fall asleep in your burrito before you get to enjoy its cheesy goodness. Okay, it’s more so passing out than falling asleep, but all those shots and dancing awkwardly to “my jam” really took it out of me. Plus, there is all that working, traveling, and millions of other things us single people manage to fill our days with sans reproducing. Crazy to think, but we have jobs. AND hobbies! Some of us even exercise and shower regularly; it’s insane! Don’t forget that whole peeing without an audience thing…Either way, we find ways to fill the time, and we are tired too.

So please try to understand that your kid's party starts at ten am, and sometimes I get home a few hours before that. If I come I can almost guarantee there will be one more cranky little person throwing up on your Pottery Barn couch.

3: I don’t have a dog sitter!!!!  Of course you guys live way out in the suburbs so it will be an all day affair with never-ending traffic back to the city. I can't find anyone to let my dog out. I’m sorry, but I only trust like TWO people to watch him, and they are either sleeping or dead since they were out with me last night. While you were watching “Frozen” for the 2492874982734987th time, we were having yet another best night of our lives.  While you apparently got yours out in college, fun is still in our systems. Sorry, but not sorry.

4: I can attend, but my bed can’t so nine times out of ten, I'm not going to come!!!! This may be a hard concept for normal, functioning people to understand, and we have lost friendships/gained psychologists over our union; but we are a team. Sure, we allow pillows and blankets to join us in the bedroom as well, but we still respect each other’s individual socialization. Nothing personal against you, but you just aren’t my pillow top mattress, and neither of us are going to put ourselves in vertical situations if we don’t have to!

5: I actually do have a financial budget and priorities!!!! Not to rain on your endless parade of birthday parties for your multiple kids, but taking fabulous trips and sampling international cuisine will probably hold a higher level of importance to me. I am sure you can cook me a wonderful meal, pour me an adequate glass of wine, and play me smooth jazz until the wee hours of the morning, but until you can do it on a private villa in Italy, I’d rather not spend my hard earned single person salary on another gift for your kid so he or she can play with the box it came in. I still love him/her though =)

6: I JUST DON’T WANT TO GO!!! I know it sounds harsh, and I couldn’t possibly sound like a bigger bitch, but I would honestly prefer to do anything other than attend your kid's little league game/birthday party/school recital. I’m just being honest! I’d rather pay a visit to my dentist (for endless root canals) while my gyno simultaneously removes her torture devices from the freezer to violate me over giving up my Sunday morning. My bed and I really still DO enjoy each other, and neither of us are going to apologize for that. Sometimes we just want to be left the hell alone and relax, just the two of us.