The glorious shame of a midweek hangover

It's Wednesday morning and my head is very tender. Nothing's deadlier than a girls' night out. Especially when foofoo hotel bars are serving martinis for a nickel. (Very special Bison nickels that no one has, mind you, but nickels nonetheless.) There was also wine and many margaritas. So many...

But this is the end of the semester, when we're all dealing with plagiarism, presentations (godspeed to MM, who had to write hers after we parted ways staggeringly last night), teaching assignments, funding, and a boatload of student papers. We needed a break. So we talked about boys, old and young. We trash talked about our colleagues and profs. We made a spectacle of ourselves in said foofoo hotel bar sharing waxing experiences. We decided on the hottest US President (we were surrounded by portraits of loomingly famous dead white fellas, so it was a natural turn, honest!). We also talked very seriously about health, our moms, about the ways we survive this impoverished career, and why or even if we should stick with it.

I don't know why we ladies don't go out sober, but it's never happened, and I don't think it ever will. I think we all behave ourselves so often that we need to take the edge off. Inevitably a lot more than said edge comes off, but it's worth it. Even now, when the sound of my typing hurts my fragile brain.