Wednesday 20 August 2014

The Princess and the Pumpkin - Remembering the Good Old Days

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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