Damn you tequila. Damn you to hell.
This was the first thought that crossed my mind when I woke up this past Sunday morning. I laid sprawled out on my cousin Phil’s couch, whose bachelor party we had been celebrating the night before.
Sitting up, I worked some moisture into my dry mouth and took in my surroundings. My snoring cousin John lay crammed into the smaller couch in the living room.
… and then I woke up for real. Apparently I had just been dreaming about waking up and leaving.
My friend Rob always tells me about dreams he has where he’s a superhero or badass secret agent or a deadly ninja assassin. See, those are cool dreams. Apparently the most exciting role my unimaginative brain can dream up is a hungover version of myself putting his shoes on. Lame.
But I digress.
I was definitely awake now – still on Phil’s couch and still regretting my decision to bring tequila to the party. Staggering to my feet I grabbed my wallet, keys and glasses, muttered something unintelligible to my snoring cousin and headed for the back door.
With my shoes unlaced, I cringed in the 6:30 am morning light and stumbled to my car like a zombie. But it was Tim Hortons and not brains that I craved. So I drove down the deserted, Sunday morning streets of Goderich, Ontario and pulled into the Tim Hortons parking lot.
I waved good morning to some old dude in the parking lot who looked at me kind of funny. I said hello to the cashier and ducked into the washroom, holding the door open for another customer just leaving. He looked at me kind of funny too.
My brain still wasn’t firing at full speed so I shrugged it off and did my business. It wasn’t until I was at the washroom sink and saw myself in the mirror that I realized why I was getting the funny looks.
I must have been sleeping on a fuzzy blanket or pillow or something. Because large chunks of pink fuzz clung to my scruffy stubble and super short hair like Velcro. Oops. Part of me hoped that this embarrassing trip to Tim Hortons was yet another dream and that I’d soon wake up once again on the couch.
I sheepishly removed the clumps of wispy fabric and went and ordered my two egg-and-cheese breakfast sandwiches. When I got back to the car I was still pulling pink strands off my face and head.
Moral of the story
A quick check in the mirror before you head out can save a lot of embarrassment. Making sure your fly’s up, that you don’t have food in your teeth or that your face isn’t covered in pink fuzz takes no time at all.
Moral of the story #2: Easy on the tequila.
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