God my head hurts.
And my mouth is dry. And I have seemingly lost my will to live.
All from attempting to find the Stanley Cup Tuesday night.
After being the model of responsibility on Monday night and staying in to watch game six, I got the crazy idea in my head to attempt to find that damn trophy for a picture.
I don't know what got into me.
I followed the cuptracker hashtag on Twitter and found it amusing to see the cup's movements and commentary of some very dedicated Blackhawks fans. In 2010 I missed taking a picture of the cup so I was determined to do so this time around.
In my desire to find the cup I forgot one important thing: I am not very good at predicting where wealthy, young professional athletes spend their leisure time.
Moreover I don't like large crowds, loud music or being sprayed with what some people call "cheap champagne."
I call it swill.
Nonetheless, I found out that the cup made it's return to Chicago on Tuesday night at places I don't frequent. Rockit? Market? I don't even know where Market is and I pass Rockit on my way to Rossi's.
Unfortunately I was on my third IPA by the time I realized that it may not be appropriate for a woman in her mid forties to run around finding a trophy that I may or may not be able to see in an atmosphere that I don't even like.
And let's not mention the 20 year age difference.
Luckily---or unluckily---one of my gay boyfriends found me and hustled me off to NoMI for additional cocktails before heading to points north. He's husband hunting again and considers me a good luck charm in that department.
Unfortunately for me, that's when the details get a little fuzzy. Things are coming back in bits and pieces but I found if I taxed my memory too much it would make my head hurt even more.
When conversations start with, "Don't you remember" that is never a good sign.
Thankfully, my boyfriend (the real one, not the gay one) came out and collected me and stopped me from making an even bigger ass of myself. You know you've been over served when a man sits you in a chair and takes your makeup off for you.
He did a really good job. When I sobered up I was very impressed.
If I hadn't been out attempting to find that damn trophy none of this foolishness wouldn't of happened.
As I age (gracefully, thank you) my lapses into twenty and thirty something party behavior are mercifully rare. I do drink but I know my limits and I know when to stop.
Depending on where I'm socializing, I usually have a lengthy commute home on public transporation. Missing your bus stop because you fell asleep and walking three miles home can be a dicey proposition at 2:00 in the morning.
I've decided that chasing after the Stanley Cup is an activity best left to the younger set.
Short of a private invitation to view it, I'm officially dropping out of stalking the cup. This is not an activity suited for a grown woman who like wine bars and real champagne.
I have a birthday coming up at the end of the summer.
If I continue chasing Lord Stanley I may not be around to celebrate.
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