It is an untypical Friday afternoon as the office is quiet and there are no last minute pre-weekend emergencies. Pure bliss and I am using the time wisely for a sneaky little post before getting into the inner debate of whether I should do a yoga class after work or drink wine.
Due to my co-worker getting very drunk last night and being m.i.a. till I got a very hung over SMS this morning at 08h30, I was thinking of what my Mum always told me: if you can party, you can work. An unfit translation, but I think it gets my point across and she got hers as I always stuck to this rule. Mind you there were definitely days I only survived with massive amounts of muffins, coffee, KFC/Mc Donald’s/Full English breakfast, but I always made it to work and with one half exception always on time. And so the story goes…
It was the night of Marie’s and my first going away party (yes, we had more than one) at a beautifully dodgy place somewhere in Alphabet City. I was due to fly for a last job to L.A. the next morning and little organized me had booked a shuttle for 06h00 to meet at my office to collect 10 trunks of wardrobe and take me to the airport from there. I am not quite sure if staying up all night was actually part of this plan and since I like my sleep I would assume not. The party though was too much fun and I don’t remember much except the Oreo cake someone had given Marie. This cake landed on the floor at some point. There is a picture of my red toe nails in navy Old Navy flipflops next to this cake. Luckily the cake was the exception to the rule and landed on the right side. Which Kervin didn’t know so there is also a picture of him pulling a face when Deniz tried to feed him with the cake after we had recovered it.
This incident actually sounded funnier in my head. Guess one had to be there…
The next thing I remember is sitting on my bed thinking it a wise idea to rather stay awake instead of attempting to sleep for 2 hours. Then my eyes closed and I was more or less woken up by a phone call from my frantic driver inquiring where I was. He was in front of my office with 10 trunks and well, I was drunk and in bed.
Sometimes I am amazed by my own organizational skills, who seem to be able to work on auto pilot when times are tough.
I: Shower and getting dressed.
Driver: Driving to my house.
I: Packing my personal stuff as in throwing random pieces of clothing in a bag.
I actually do not have a clue why I didn’t do that the night before, such a rookie error!
Driver & I: Driving to my office.
Driver: Loading 10 trunks and counting twice.
He could see I was in not state to do that, I didn’t even have to ask.
Driver: Hitting the gas hard.
I: Requesting him to pull over for Gatorate and a snack.
He didn’t even argue, he knew I wouldn’t make it out alive without.
Driver & I: Actually arriving at the gate just in time.
…to be told that if it was just me they would let me on board, but since it was me + 10, no sorry can’t do. Alas, this story only counts as a half exception as I still blame the luggage for having to catch the later plane and not making it to work on time.
Call it work and play German style and imagine my smug grin here. Though the Gods did punish me: still drunk plane rides are no walk in the park and neither are bright orange wallpapers in the hotel room once off the plane.
Therefore I will be eternally grateful that even in healthy and chic L.A. one can order a plain old greasy burger with fries for second breakfast.