The Morning After: Happy Hour on Steroids

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some of which are way more mortifying than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I’ve come to learn two fundamental truths this week: the happy hour does not exist, and breaking and entering is easier than it looks. I’m serious.

If I had known that a quick drink with a friend after work was going to lead to free steaks with married men, a rooftop bar with what may or may not have been a British boy band on holiday, and a late night snack session alone in my friend’s boss’s apartment, I would have worn a better outfit to work that day.  Because that’s my biggest regret of the night… obvi.

But as I was saying before, there is no singular hour that is happy, at least not in my world. Personally, I want each hour to be happier than the next. And I accomplished that, to the max, with my friend Monica this past (epic) Wednesday night. One beer turned into three different bars, multiple drafts, and a gaggle of new male friends with money to spend. So, despite the wedding bands and balding heads, when they offered to take us out to dinner, who were we to say no?

The Bald Brigade took us to a restaurant in the Meatpacking District of New York that can only be described as a steak-turned-whore house. It was like a bachelor pad designed by a metrosexual with a taste for busty women and black satin. But seven courses (and seven gin and tonics) later, we were having a grand old time discussing how many times a week we can eat Chipotle without falling into coma. The verdict: 7 times… but only if you got the burrito bowl with no cheese or condiments, which basically sucks all the fatty joy out of it anyway.

Once that pressing issue was settled, it was off to the rooftop bar at the swanky Ganesvoort Hotel where we replaced our gentlemanly dinner guests with a group of British men who all sported the Justin Bieber hair do and were more than happy to make sure our glasses were never empty. It was around the time I was entering “Leo Your Fiancé” into my phonebook when I realized that …. wait a tick, I live in New Jersey, and it’s now three a.m. and there are no trains going home. And it’s a weeknight. One minute I’m sitting in the VIP section of a luxury hotel with the world on a string, the next I’m homeless and without a change of clothes for work in the morning. How cruel life can be sometimes.

While Monica found it prudent to seek shelter in the arms of a Backstreet Boy, I still had no place to go. That’s when Monica remembered her boss was out of town for the week. PERFECT. She sent me off to a Manhattan address, with only the knowledge that I could find a key to the apartment underneath the mailbox. Next thing I know, I’m entering into a stranger’s apartment and making myself right at home.

I proceeded to: take a shower, making sure to remember to shave my legs; get myself dressed for bed, finding a sassy little nightie in this woman’s top drawer; and eat a late-night snack of cashews and Rocky Road ice-cream. My last fleeting thought before I finally passed out was, I better make sure to position myself correctly in this lady’s memory-foam mattress, otherwise the jig is up! Because surely the empty jar of cashews and dirty ice-cream spoon in the sink wouldn’t be enough of a clue.

I woke up in the morning not 100% sure where I was… or why I had thought it OK to wear another woman’s clothes to bed. Or to even sleep in her bed in the first place. But I made sure to return the nightgown to its rightful place, make the bed, and return the key to it’s hiding spot underneath the mailbox.

As I walked around H&M searching for an acceptable outfit to wear to work that morning (I chose a see-through t-shirt dress, sans panties, and sneakers—I must have still been drunk), I pieced together my night. After giggling to myself in the dressing room (both at my reflection at at the previous night’s shenanigans), I realized that I’d actually learned a third lesson:

If you ever happen to become a boss of any kind, don’t – under ANY circumstances – let the location of your hide-away key slip to your employees. Just don’t.

Intro to Cooking: Cantaloupe Crepes
Intro to Cooking: Cantaloupe Crepes
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