Life Lesson #25: Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut. Sometimes You Don't.

You should never make a sudden decision if you are one (or any combination of) the following:

Extremely hungry and/or thirsty.
In desperate need of the bathroom.
Hung-over beyond belief.

Why?

Because then you might whip out your cell phone on the Long Island Expressway, call the restaurant where you work, and quit your bartending job.

Or at least, that’s what happened to me last Friday.

At the time, it seemed like the only logical thing to do. Westchester, H.F.T. and I were stuck in mounting traffic and suffering a severe combo of the above three nasties somewhere around exit 48 on 495. We still had at least two hours driving time ahead of us. I was due behind the bar in an hour and a half. I was still wearing my dress from my fulltime job’s going away party for me the night before and was having trouble finding my underwear.

A more rational person would call their boss and say they would be late, or at the most, unable to make it to work that evening.

I simply quit.

I called in, asked for Mike, and told him I wasn’t going to be coming in. Anymore.

“Wait, are you saying you’re done?”

“Oh, yea. I’m done done,” I replied.

While it made for a great story, many a chuckle from my amused friends, and a wonderful Fourth of July/Celebrate Penny’s Retirement weekend, the novelty has worn off. And I’m left wondering at what moment I fell into the downward spiral I’m so happily tumbling around in.

Some may say, Penny is turning a little nutty.

Up until this point, I’ve been a very stable, dependable, relatively straightedge individual. Perfect attendance in high school. A 3.7 or so overall GPA from NYU. A job lined up before I even graduated. Independent living in Manhattan since 2003. Never less than four days a week at the gym. Only one personal day in over two years at my most recent fulltime job. Always home for Sunday dinner.

This has changed, it seems, overnight. There are displays popping up all over the place like neon signs pointing out my sudden loss of sanity.

Exhibit A: I am totally unemployed. I haven’t not had a job since I was fourteen! Now, I got nothing. Not even a freaking babysitting gig or something. Which, if by any chance, you know someone who needs their kids to be watched, please, let me know. I don’t claim to be great with little ones, but you can trust me for a few hours for sure.

Exhibit B: I barley go to the gym. When I probably could use it the most. And when I do drag my ass there, it’s a pretty poor showing. A run on the treadmill magically slows down to a walk. Taking a class is substituted with stretching on my own. Working on my abs equates to me staring at the ceiling for a few minutes.

Exhibit C: Given the sheer amount of alcohol I’ve consumed as of late, I should be in rehab. Or at least suffering from some wicked, mind-bending hangovers. And while I’m not complaining really, I’ve been waking up feeling like I might have had a glass or two of wine. But that’s all. At worst, nothing a quick jump in the pool can’t cure. And that can’t be a good sign.

Exhibit D: I don’t watch television anymore. Now, you need to understand, I’m a bit of a TV junkie. Especially when Madonna and I lived together. We had certain shows each day of the week we had to watch, and if not live, than certainly dvr-ed. Sitcoms, reality crap, mini series; you name it and I probably watched it. Kind of obsessively. Currently, I watch Entourage and dvds. That’s it.

Exhibit E: I’ve given up on sleeping more than four or five hours a night. I just can’t fall asleep. The smallest noise or movement and I pop out of bed. And forget sleeping in. I barely make it past seven or eight, and even if I manage to fall back asleep, it’s that miserable excuse for slumber that seems to make it worse than if I just got up initially.

Exhibit F: I wore flip-flops out on Saturday night. I never wear flip-flops out. Ever. Always heels. I may be going to the crappiest dive bar in the shittiest of towns, and you’ll still find me in something that’s gonna give me at least three inches on my usual short self. Blame it on my mom, I don’t know. But regardless, it’s my thing. Or rather, it was. Because this weekend, I slid into rubber soles no more than half an inch off the ground and was ready to go.

I’m not really sure what the hell is going on. But the more bizarre thing is, I’m actually LOVING it. It’s like I was meant to be a heavy drinking, no sleeping, forget working-out, flip-flopping, jobless waste of space! I’m happy, like, all of the time! Even when I’m tossing around sleeplessly in bed or twisting my ankle as I try to dance on a water-beer-and-sand covered dance floor.

Life Lesson #25: It seems that no matter how well you think you know yourself, you can be wrong. Or at least, temporarily misguided.

I’ve decided to open up to the possibility that dropping my usual traits and forgetting how I typically define myself can be a good thing for me. A really good thing.

I know that the old reliable Penny is waiting just around the corner with a W2 form in one hand and high heel shoes in the other. But for now, I’m going to ignore her. Because I'm enjoying this carefree attitude I'm currently embracing. It matches my flip-flops pretty damn well.