One of Those Days

You know that the day isn't going to be a disney musical when your first waking thoughts are, "oh, shit."

Last night was the Queer Youth Prom, and I volunteered to chaperone for the second year in a row. The theme was Out through the Decades, so my date and I dressed up as Secret Heavy Metal Dude Lovers, and I broke out my spandex and bought a leather vest for the occasion. I also used an entire bottle of sample-sized hairspray and wore red cowboy boots. Alas, I have no photographs of the occasion, but you'll have to trust that it was nothing short of amazing. The only think I forgot was to pack the spandex (which is funny, because it really, genuinely didn't occur to me) but I think it was a good choice in the interest of keeping things G-rated for the youth.

At any rate, it was an entertaining, if long, evening, and several of us chaperones decided to nightcap it off at a local drinking establishment. That would have been fine if the strong gin and tonics hadn't come in pint glasses, and if I'd eaten supper.

Long story short, I found myself walking to my car at 9:00 this morning, sipping on my coffee as gently as I could so as not to rattle the shards of glass that seem to be lodged in my brain. There is a complex series of broken blood vessels across my chest from the binding (to all of my trans and drag-performing friends: I'm sorry. I really didn't know) and I think I still have pillow wrinkles on my face.

I picked up Daughter from her friend's house, where she'd spent the night--probably getting even less sleep than me--and took her to acting class. I foolishly volunteered to help out at a bottle-drive fundraiser this afternoon, but being in a loud, clinking room full of the smell of rotten booze is, um, not my first choice right now.

Wish me luck. And a nap.