I’ve had a two day hangover and have only just emerged back into the real world on this sunny London Sunday. When I was younger and a spritely, young footloose and fancy free thing, I swear my hangover was far, far milder. Maybe needing an extra nap in the day. Now, I can barely string a sentence together and it’s pretty fucking obvious when I’ve had a big night. Pre-widowhood, I’d be the one shepherding my drunken aggressive wife home. Now, I barely know how I get myself home. In fact, sometimes I don’t manage that.
On Friday, upon entering the office half an hour late with hurriedly applied eyeliner on, my colleague commented, “your hair looks different“. A minute later she exclaimed, “ohhhhh, I see.” Why? Because she knew full well that I hadn’t been home the night before and had gotten ready in an alien environment. I’d used someone else’s hair straighteners.
And where was this alien environment? None other than future wife’s house. Future wife being Tinder Girl #4 with whom I’ve been taking it very slow. I GOT DRUNK AND HAD SEX and I don’t remember a fucking thing about the naked time. Romantic, huh? I do recall her being disappointed at not being able to make me come (I was off my face – what does one expect?!) and stumbling to the loo in the dark half naked (bottom half) risking an encounter with her two housemates (hello! My vajayjay and I are pleased to meet you!“) who are no doubt pissed off at the amount of noise I made. Oh so glamorous. Cringe. But waking up in the morning, aside from the hangover, felt oh so wonderful. She fit me so comfortably and wow she is super fit and cute and has soft amazing skin and boobs and #IWANTTOMARRYHER. We went to buy coffee and got the train to work together and she kissed me goodbye on the lips. I must slow the fuck down and only let my imagination run away with itself, not my words or actions.
Let me back track a little to how I got to this point. I performed in my big gig on Thursday. I love being on a stage. Like I REALLY love it. The rush that comes when I sing and people sing along is bloody brilliant – I live for the applause. When I’m on stage, I completely forget I’m a widow. I’m just me, an attention seeking diva. In this case, I was a rock chick because the gig repertoire was super rocky (even though I sang Let it Go). I’m not posting my face on this blog so you’ll just have to imagine this outfit (edit: ok so enough of you bugged me for a pic)– pleather black tight leggings, black knee high boots, a black tank top with Pink Floyd’s logo, and a little denim redundant waistcoat type thing. I had three shades of foundation on my face, four shades of eye shadow, shit loads of liquid eyeliner, killer red lips and three coats of mascara. I have an asymmetric bob with blonde highlights in it (thank you Mr Man Bun if you’re reading x). I basically looked like a rock whore. But boy do I rock at hot rock whore and Future Wife agreed clearly as she must have peeled my outfit off me a few hours later. Or does that mean she didn’t like it?
Widow Bestie, Widow Second Bestie, Boy Widower, Stripper Friendly Gin Drinker and assorted other good friends came along to support me. I felt super popular and it has reinforced that I have astoundingly supportive new friends in my life who like me for me. None of them have ever seen me perform before so it came as a total shock when I was belting out the choons and swinging my hair like Beyoncé. Future Wife met the whole crew, not yet knowing the truth about the whole dead wife shit, and gained thumbs up all round, even from Boy Widower who was understandably miffed and kept alluding to coming home with me because he might have missed his last train. Bollocks to that. Missed his shot. The whole “fuck, what if I’m straight?” thing is over for me. Anyhoo, my solution to finding the whole evening overwhelming was to have red wine. Then beer. Then more red wine. Then more beer. Then moving to another bar. Then prosecco. Then red wine. Then lots of kissing. Then a 3am uber back to Future Wife’s. Then (I assume) sex. Jeez. Good work for a Thursday.
Now I just need to figure out a way to make up for my lack of prowess. I also came out as a bipolar widow… But that’ll have to be a whole other blog post. Until next time.