Last night, for fun, my husband and I went to a popular Beverly Hills restaurant. It was a busy place; when I pulled in, the valet asked if I was there for an event. Feeling like an awkward loner, I told him, no, just dinner, and he directed me to the awkward loners’ valet line. I handed over my car and stepped out into a sea of happy well-dressed people who were all off to a party I wasn’t invited to.
I got there before my husband, so the hostess sent me to wait in the bar. I felt a little daring, sitting there on my own, so I ordered a drink. I never order drinks. But, there was something on the menu with gin, and rhubarb bitters, and that seemed weirdly exotic and very American all at once, so I ordered it. It came in a martini glass and it was pale pink, just the shade that generally appeals to eleven-year-old girls. I was vaguely embarrassed, sitting alone at the bar with a pale pink drink, but I drank it anyway.
When my husband came, he ordered a drink too.
Then, at dinner, each of us wanted a glass of wine but we had trouble choosing. Our helpful waitress suggested half glasses, so we could experiment, and then she then she filled our four glasses with enough wine to fill a bottle.
“Generous half glasses,” my husband said, and I agreed, but the wine was good and I drank it anyway.
This morning I woke up with a hangover.
I’m not getting any younger.