The best of me

For the longest time, I’ve wished that I could feel tipsy all the time. Not in a bourgeoning alcoholic way, but in that warm, everything’s ok, everything’s funny, I’m funny and relaxed and happy kinda way.

I’ve just got back from an extended lunch, and I had a bit of wine. I need to put this in context for you: I’m a cheap date. I’m a two-glass-and-girl-down kinda girl. Bridget Jones said: Now that I’m in my 30s, at least I can hold my drink. I’m 32 and I had to get driven home from a party last week because I couldn’t place one foot in front of the other, let alone string a coherent sentence together. I’m not proud of myself. In fact it took the entire long weekend to put the whip away and be kind to myself – but there in lies the rub.

The sober me is cool but leans towards being serious and tense. I’m fairly tightly wound. I am a work in progress. (And my oldest friends will tell you that I’m much better than I used to be!)

The tipsy me, is fabulous. (Or is that the tipsy me telling the tipsy me that?) I shudder to think. But when I do think about it, I feel so much better about myself when I’m a little lubricated. I’m chatty, I’m confident, I’m naughty, I don’t really have a care in the world. And that’s how I want to be always. No holds barred. No bars held. It’s the perfect balance between lucidity and fuzziness that takes the edge off and makes things look brighter. (For instance, I’m still able to type and spell correctly, and for those of you who know me well, know that spelling, even when I’m sober is not one of my fortes.)

The point is: I like me better when I’m tipsy. And if that’s the way I feel, surely everyone else will? Then again, we are own worst enemies! And my friends are quite forgiving.

Now if I can only get the hang of staying tipsy for longer, instead of plunging headfirst into amounts of alcohol that turn me into a pariah… watch this space.