Passing Out…

I don’t think “passing out” at a party is or ever was a good thing.

Not as a teenager.
Side note:  Once I drank an entire mickey of vodka straight and I woke myself up by snoring on a hall floor with a slice of ham on my face. Not a good look on anyone.

Not in college.
Side note:  On my birthday I “threw up” outside of my res house and had to be dragged up the stairs to my bed.  And I’m a big girl, so it took a few friends to take care of me. Really not a good look on anyone.

Not at my stagette.
Side note:  Zed found me asleep naked beside the toilet in our bathroom. I don’t even want to know what that looked like.

Not as a 35 year old woman with two children.
Side note:  Definitely not as a 35 year old woman with two children. But before you judge me, keep reading, please.

A few weeks back I was invited to a Christmas Party with some of my favourite women.  We had a five course meal paired with the appropriate wines, shared Christmas gifts and danced like no one was watching. It was an absolutely awesome night.

At midnight, I took a wee rest on the couch. I woke up two hours later.


The difference with this night compared to the others, is that I wasn’t drunk. I was bloody exhausted.

Bloody exhausted from preparing for the holidays.

Bloody exhausted from work.

Bloody exhausted from searching for a new daycare.

Bloody exhausted from hosting my in laws.

I was just so exhausted that I fell asleep on my friends couch.

So now, “passing out” has a whole new meaning.  It’s not like when I was a teenager. It’s not like those days in college. It’s not like celebrating my staggette.

Sure, like those ridiculous events, I missed all the fun because I had over done it. 

Yes, I had over done it again, but I earned this “passing out”.

And it was bloody fabulous.