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| My brother and me 10 years ago...back when I was still super skinny... He hasn't changed a bit! |
My brother and I used to live together in our 20’s. Before
long-term relationships, we were each other’s go-to plus-ones, mostly because
we were best friends and had more fun together than with anyone else in that
era. Think Ross and Monica, the early years. 2004 was a magical time.
Many a Joburg night was spent driving from one hot spot to
another in his black Polo, car-bar in
boot and sights set on having as much innocently intoxicated fun as humanly
possible in a single eve. Those days are long gone – both my brother and I are now happily married and living with our respective significant others in our
respective homes on opposite ends of South Africa.
We speak about the good
old days occasionally, but neither of us misses it, as we had our full of
them back then and are both very happy in our new, more grown up lives.
While I’m not exactly tied down at home with 3.5 screaming
kids and a sleep-deprived relationship hanging from a thread, I am in my mid thirties and married, and
thus have not gone out on a bender in forever.
This past week was different. I was visiting my brother in
JHB – the Vegas to my Cape Town suburban lifestyle – and there was a rugby game
on. We had done the malls, we had done the kuering
at home. We had driven around in his fancy new car being all grown-up’y and we
had spent 2 fun filled family days with his wife and 2 little boys, complete
with kid-friendly restaurant lunches, me playing with baby-blocks and play
dough and jumping on the trampoline with my 3 year old nephew, and having his 5
week old baby brother puke in my hair.
What next? After deciding to join an old friend to watch the
rugby at an Irish Pub we bundled ourselves into the faithful black Polo, just
like the good old days, leaving his
fancy new car out of the equation. (Only this time, because we are older and
wiser, we had pre-booked a taxi service to drive us, and the car, back home
afterwards.)
South Africa won the rugby game and spirits were high – the
air was filled with an electric thumping thanks to a tented dance floor
just outside the pub. Our little trio of mid 30’s to early 40’s fell into
party mode as easily as we used to in 2004, and we threw back our first
shooter for the night. A thunderstorm raged and we ran through the rain to get
to the tented throng, only to find that we were about 15 to 20 years older than
the rest of the patrons.
That didn’t matter, of course, because I was already
sparkling with Satruday night buzz, and got a few approving looks and
compliments on my general appearance, making my out-of-practice head swell with
pride. The disgustingly self-satisfying conversation that went on internally sounded
something like this: ‘I’m not 19 anymore,
but look at me. I’m still the tallest girl here, and I’m wearing a pair of drop
dead Pringle boots! 19 year old me could NEVER afford such a purchase.’ I
know its shallow, but we all like to feel pretty and admired once in a while,
don’t we? I accepted another shooter.
We decided to head across the road to one of our old
drinking holes and join a familiar, more age appropriate crowd. I used to hate
Billy The Bums 10 years ago, but this time, I fit right in. No longer the
sapling who was on the lookout for arm candy, but the well dressed, well
sozzled woman who ‘looks great for her age!’ Head swelling continued as
pink-drink-swirling persevered.
But as they say, pride comes before a fall. Fortunately I
didn’t actually fall (though I could have, in my fabulous boots running
squealing through the rain like a little piggy let out for the night) but my
energy levels turned from princess to pumpkin at precisely midnight. Time to go
home.
SO much fun was had, but I am suffering for it. In the words
of the great Marian Keyes, I felt ‘rough
as a badgers arse’*. Unfortunately I had to come back home to Cape Town the
next day and I was a little worse for wear thanks to our nostalgic good old days night out. A 48hour
hangover is what I ended up with, and let me tell you, taking trains, busses
and an airplane with a hangover is no joke. Especially to a woman in her
mid-thirties, no matter how good she looks for her age.
Reality came to me in the sharpened hardness of the morning
after, slapped me up side my head and shouted ‘What on earth were you
thinking?!’ I took my medicine and invoked the customary saying ‘I’m never
drinking again.’
So no, I don’t miss those days and I won’t be so eagerly
rushing back for more any time in the near future. I blame it all on the
shooters. Back home, I am fully capable of finishing off a bottle of good red wine
over a nice long social dinner party, but I have not had the contents of a shot
glass pass my lips for as long as I can remember. Tequila makes me feel
pregnant, and not in a good way.
Today is day 3 post-party and I am only interested in a nice
warm bath, a hot cup of tea, and a great night-in, reading from my Kindle till
I fall blissfully asleep at 9pm.
All I can say is that ‘2004
was a very different time. 2004 was a very different me.’**
Love, lust and fairy-star-dust
Cherry Blossom
*This Charming Man, by Marian Keyes
**The Angel from my Nightmare, by Sim Sibanda
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