I work for a media company, and for this reason, it seems to be socially acceptable to drink on any day of the week with ‘day’ in it. Wednesdays are packed full of media lunches, Thursdays are the new Fridays and Fridays are, well, the old Friday. Any occasion where a beer trolley can get wheeled out, the colleagues are all over mass alcohol consumption, and the hangovers rage for days after as people learn to work with the shakes.
Birthday champagne? All over it. Friday afternoon beer trolley? Oh go on then. Tequila Tuesday? Waitaminute…
A few months ago, after a terrible previous week and a pretty bad start to that one, a colleague and I decided to go to the bar below the office once Tuesday’s working day was officially over, and have a glass of wine. We should have realised when I walked up to the bar and accidently ordered a bottle that the night wasn’t going to end how we had previously expected. The line had been drawn, and we were officially ‘out for the evening’.
I’m normally quite sensible. The idea of a hangover for the rest of the week is anything to turn me teetotal – I don’t want to sit in pointless meetings feeling terrible and getting beer fear from flashbacks of the night before. But something about that week had sent me over the edge and the self destruct, devil may care button had been firmly pushed.
We finished the bottle of wine and head off to our favourite bar for a game of cocktail roulette. The rules are simple; you work down the menu but can’t go for the same one twice. The results are interesting.
We sunk 5 rounds of the game until someone had the wise (not so wise) idea that we would go for a dance, so, at 11pm on a TUESDAY we found ourselves in a live music club, dancing on an empty dancefloor to all our favourite crown pleasers. By this time, tequila consumption was at an all time high and we were loving life, not even thinking about the 9am meeting we had in the morning. There were cheers of “#TequilaTuesday!!” from my friends, and they were coming thick and fast. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the week, but we drowned out that little voice in our heads and carried on regardless. Some serious shapers were thrown until I looked up and stumbled upon an awful realisation.
I had been on dates with the lead singer of the covers band – who was now standing on the stage, ploughing through their set list and clearly resisting the urge to crease up laughing. We had rocked some serious Dad dancing in the ten minutes since he had clocked us, including the running man, some robot moves and my best Mexican wave. Awkward.
I had been out with him a few times at the end of last year, but Christmas and my trip back to the States had got in the way and I hadn’t seen him in a few months. The embarrassment was still raw. It was one of those ‘dear God why am I still here?” moments, where I would have rather been sitting in a room with a bunch of accountants sticking needles in my eyes than there.
More tequila was consumed.
The moral of this story is, #TequilaTuesday CANNOT BE A THING. It doesn’t do good things to ones week.