When PARTYING leads to PAIN…

This is a picture of me and my buddy Nick when we visited the legendary “Comedy Cellar” in Manhattan last week.  Why did we go there?  Well besides the fact that Nick and I have the same dark sense of humor and love twisted stand-up comedians, there was a good reason we were out… I was “TECHNICALLY” on vacation and made a plan to get wild.  Here’s how it all went down:

My husband and son recently went home to spend some time with family in Florida, while I stayed behind in New York working on some new book proposals and an on-going TV project.  They were gone for 10 days, and I planned to party EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.   After all, I hardly get to go out, and I was itching to “party like a rockstar.”  Unfortuately, I neglected to send a memo to my body which was clearly not in favor of my plans to act like a teenager.  In my case, my body was done 72 hours after my “boys” boarded their flight.  I wasted no time.  That same night my “girl crew” hit the town decked out in trendy clothes and sexy Jimmy Choos.   (I can’t help it — the need to feel 21 again drives me to wear over-priced clothing and painful footwear!)   We hit the hottest rooftop bar in Manhattan (aka “The Hudson Terrace”) for the launch of a new fashion line.  My friends and I didn’t even make it through the first hour, done in by the alcohol haze. 

For night 2, we all decided to just have a quiet dinner at a local steakhouse, get in some good girl-talk, and turn in early.  The plan would have worked –had it not been for the restaurant’s proximity to a great neighborhood bar/lounge where we decided to stop in for “a quick drink.”  It was 3am when I stumbled through my apartment door begging God to have mercy on my arthritic toes. 

By night 3, the thought of wearing heels (expensive or otherwise) made me cringe in agony, so I decided to wear flip flops to “The Comedy Cellar” when I joined my old radio producer “Nick” for some good laughs and a “2 drink minimum.”  Honestly, it should have been a 2 drink MAXIMUM  for me.  Despite the fact that I had two slits for eyes due to my exhaustion and I was slurring from the liters of booze swirling around my brain, Nick and I went club-hopping (yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking either) and my doorman was speechless when a cab deposited me in front of my building at 6am.  When I awoke later that afternoon (somewhere between 4 and 5pm) I felt like Lindsay Lohan –BEFORE her forced stint in rehab.  The partying had clearly caught up with me, and it was time to face facts.  While I am still young enough to enjoy an occassional visit to a club, there is a reason hardcore “partying” is mostly reserved for those who are still single and childless.  I have decided to curtail the extreme late nights from now on, I fully accept that I am clearly NOT a teenager, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve also discovered the blissful comfort of Isotoner slippers.   Ahhhhhhh.

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