David Attenborough Presents: A Hungover Thirty-Something Female Starting Her Day
Here we have a hungover thirty-something female who has awoken, debilitated, after a rare, wild night out. She came home, drunk, alone (again), and endured a restless night of vomiting and bumping into walls.
We find her the next morning. She has managed to get to her feet and is headed for the coffee maker. Coffee is a resource commonly sought out by the hungover thirty-something. It’s a reliable source of energy, helps with aching in the head, and also smells good.
Many thirty-somethings experience symptoms of coffee withdrawal every morning and rely heavily on this resource, hungover or not. Observe how she puts the coffee together as if on auto-pilot; how quickly she lifts and separates the filter; the exact pouring of six cups of water without even looking (yes, just for her); the burial of the nose in the coffee can for the deep inhale of its healing aromas. She has been here before.
As the coffee brews, our thirty-something contemplates the options for breaking her fast: walk to the diner and procure a breakfast burrito, drive through a fast-food restaurant and purchase the entire breakfast menu, or scavenge for leftovers in the fridge.
She opens the refrigerator, searching for prey. There, she’s spotted it: an avocado. A ripe one. Already cut in half and protected in the avocado saver. Enticing. Will she stay in the safety of her den and provide sustenance for herself, or will she venture out? Somehow she stumbles without even moving her feet.
“So no driving, then,” she announces to no one.
She evaluates the risks: walking, excessive perspiration, getting the wrong order, running into someone she knows, full-fledged panic attack, inadvertently buying an entire lemon meringue pie as she waits, etc.
She returns to the fridge, determined to remain in the den and finish the avocado. When the avocado is ripe, she must use it. Nothing makes a thirty-something more distraught than letting a perfect avocado go to waste, especially when they reside in California.
As she closes the refrigerator, her eyes lock on an invitation stuck to the door with a magnet. It has chickens on it. The magnet, not the invitation. The invitation shows a clip art drawing of a baby. Our thirty-something looks alarmed. She appears to have forgotten about a ritual gathering of thirty-somethings to honor one who is bringing another human into the world: a baby shower.
Not all thirty-somethings reproduce in the same season. In fact, some don’t reproduce at all. It could be because they have already reproduced earlier in life, or because they simply have no desire to do so. Raising a human is a lifelong undertaking, unlike other species, and not all thirty-somethings are prepared for that commitment.
Our thirty-something has not yet reproduced, and as such, baby showers fall somewhere between having a cavity filled and being dumped via text message as far as enjoyment goes.
She glances at the coffeemaker. Still brewing.
A new decision has arisen for our hungover thirty-something: will she venture out of her den for the sake of the other thirty-something’s fetus? Or will she retreat back to the safety of her bedding canopy and wait out the day in seclusion?
The coffeemaker beeps loudly, signaling it has finished. She visibly perks up at this sound, which is why the process of brewing coffee is referred to by humans as “percolating.” Hungrily, she pours herself a cup.
She drinks it black, of course.
She prepares the leftovers, some stale pad thai and one soggy spring roll, and sprinkles salt and pepper on the half avocado. She eats it straight from the peel with a spoon. An unusual breakfast, but it appears to be working. Her head is lifting, her eyes are opening wider… oh, too wide. She recoils at the light.
Her eyes land on a gift bag in the corner, indicating she knew about the baby shower the whole time. This is a characteristic the thirty-something possesses which carries her through these hungover times: preparedness. It’s likely that she purchased the gift from what is known as a “registry,” or a compulsory list of objects to buy for the fetus, weeks ago.
Her phone buzzes with a text message:
OMG it’s Baby Shower day! So excited! See you soon! xoxo
She cringes. A power move by the soon-to-be mother has been laid at her feet: the guilt trip. Backing out of the shower now could be emotionally costly to our thirty-something, and might cause more problems later than if she just sucks it up and goes.
She stumbles into the bedroom, selecting a dress from her closet. It’s black, inappropriate for a baby shower, really, but with that glower on her face, none of the other thirty-somethings are likely to comment. Now dressed, she applies lotion to her parched, puffy skin, pokes her under-eye bags before painting mascara onto her eyelashes, and sighs, grunting “good enough” before exiting her den in mismatched sandals.
Oh, dear. Notice our thirty-something has forgotten the gift on the floor next to the door. We’ll have to wait and see if she returns for the gift, or shows up to the gathering both hungover and empty-handed.
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