I lie in bed at night, alone. It’s the same every year, once a year. Once a year, on the first Friday after his birthday, my spouse leaves for his annual pub crawl with his friends, who used to be young men but are now all old cronies. It’s a tight schedule, on foot, to twenty different venues at 15 minute intervals. I remain home with the children for several different reasons. The primary reason is that someone must remain fully functioning during the rest of the weekend’s hangover, and oh what a mother of all hangovers it is.
I wouldn’t mind so much if he were a regularly drinker, I think, but for the rest of the year he is dry. Nothing more dangerous than a fizzy coke. How does a body cope with that kind of onslaught?
Hence, once a year, I go to bed early, or at least relatively early, after a glass of wine to speed me on my way. I know that the last call, at ‘The Last Call,’ is at 1 in the morning. I know that approximately two in the morning I shall wake up. I shall wake up and be extremely grumpy. I shall be grumpy and alone. I shall remain alone until any time after three but by that time my grumpiness will have vanished. Instead I shall troll through my regular nightmare scenarios. Has he been squished by a bus? Has he died of alcohol poisoning, as well he should? Has he been arrested for miscellaneous misdeamours, as I’m sure that no-one understands the fun of playing ‘dead rats,’ least of all the local constabulary, or cops, as we now call them. I should quite like to be present as he lies in the middle of the road on his back, squealing ‘dead rats,’ whilst his legs and arms bicycle through the empty air and explains his purpose to a cop. By about four I give up and peek out the window. My ears are on heightened alert to pick up pin pricks, although it will probably be crashes and bangs.
Between 4 and 5 I will hear him, I’m almost sure I will? I hope I shall? I’ll check the LED on the clock as the numbers flip over slowly, oh so slowly.
When I hear the noise I’m up in a flash to spy. I look outside into the yard as the sun begins to rise, where he sits on the concrete with an arm around the silent dog as he howls to the non-existent moon.
6 hours ago
17 comments:
Wow, good thing it's only once per year. ;-)
Oh man, my stomach is heaving just thinking about that much alcohol! Glad he made it home safely and reasonably intact.
Oh dear - if it's not the kids it's the spouse!
Leave him alone- he still comes home to you...(Drunken man defending another- and rightfully so!)..Jebus, give the man a chance to be a man... women ain't got all the grief on their shoulders, you know..
This is why a man needs to keep in traing...
A good few jars two or three nights a week...
Then the ten pinters don't hit so hard :)
Wow - sounds like, er, fun??
Men ... go figure!
Worrying is the worst--you do go through all those scenarios.
Excellent, funny post! MH
Thank goodness he's only a beast once a year.
I appreciated your comment on my blog the other day. It was so nice to see you, and nice of you to drop by.
thats funny! My dear hubby isn't the drinker he used to be either so on those rare occasions when he does got out with the boys (Super Bowl gathering for instance) I just know he's going to be bombed when he gets home, pass out, and say "I just can't drink like that anymore!"....really? Glad he made it home!
Oh dear, Maddy, I don't know whether to laugh or cry... That's real hard, waiting for a man to sow his oats...
All men truly are beasts. They all have their little freaky rituals with their buddies. It's nuts! Good luck this year!
I can't really comment on getting a hangover as I've had the odd few in my time, but never intentionally. I mean what possesses people to go out and drink so much that they kow they are going to be ill for the rest of the weekend? I wouldn't be the sympathetic wife I know that. You're a saint!
I love this post better than any of your previous posts, which I've loved. You are often sideways in discussing your husband, and I appreciate this full dedication to him.
That said, TWENTY pubs?
I've felt the post-40 hangover, and it ain't worth it. But howling at the moon? The best image ever.
I hope he didn't throw up on anything you like.
I'm mesmerised by your beautiful description, especialy the final paragraph. :)
once a year only :) let him have his fun
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