I opened my eyes to a world an hour behind where it once was, and I too felt my mind an hour behind my body. What time was it? What were the implications of that time? I had no natural inclination of an idea. From what I could reason it was Sunday, morning, felt like 10, actually 9, wanted to keep sleeping, had to get home. I dragged my body off the fake leather couch (how and why I always find myself sleeping on these instead of a bed I'll never know), collected my thoughts and began to make my way to the car. November 1st, the morning after Halloween. Rough.I took off the remains of a costume that lost its luster after drink number 11, tossed on some normal street clothes and hit the road. City driving while hung over, half asleep, and in pain can be challenging, especially when the FDR is blocked off by police barricades and you continually find yourself redirected deeper and deeper into Harlem. Nonetheless, I put on some Phoenix as loud as possible to stay awake, sang as many broken phrases of the lyrics I could muster, and made my way across the bridge. I pulled into my drive way half an hour later, 9:30 a.m., now feeling like it's almost 11 but tired enough to pass out on the kitchen floor. I elect for my bed instead, 1: because the hardwood floor is a downgrade from the leather couch, and 2: my mom might get suspicious of drug use if she found my close-to-lifeless body in front of her refrigerator when she came down to make breakfast and coffee.
As I nestled into the cold sheets, gripping my pillow for warmth like a 7 year old on his father's leg at a family party, I recapped the night and laughed at the crippling effects of alcohol on the human body. What did I drink to make me feel this terrible? I guess the real question would be, what did Billy Madison drink to make me feel this terrible? Ah, well that's a different story. Whatever Billy had, it must have been strong. I distinctly remember talking with Audrey Hepburn for awhile and perhaps the kid from E.T.? Or maybe it was E.T. himself. It was then I realized the true beauty of Halloween. It's the only night of the year you get to take on a whole new identity, however crazy it may be, and just roll with it. You lose all responsibility for your actions. I didn't follow shots of tequila with shots of vodka, then take the conditioner and shampoo bottles and clank them together as if they were fighting, Billy did. Or, I didn't make out with a blond flapper at the bar, my nerdy-professor alter ego did.
When reveling in the phenomenon that is the adult-Halloween wore off, I passed out, feeling like it was 11, actually 10, knowing there's some time commitment in my near future, thinking what it could be, not remembering, not caring, falling asleep, sleeping. I wake up to the sound of my dad opening my bedroom door. Oh the joys of living at home after 4 glorious years of freedom. "A.J. wake up, we have to go to the wedding party." The last thing I want to hear on any day off was the first thing I heard the day after Halloween, and on one of the biggest days in sports ever.
There I was, sitting at a table filled with my parent's and my sister's friends, hours before what was to be (and I believe was in fact) FOX sports' saving grace- the ultimate lineup: Giants/Eagles at 1, Favre's return to Lambeau Field at 4, Yankees/Phillies, Game 4 of the World Series at 8. Every sports fan in the country would be watching...except for me. I was locked up in a restaurant from 12 to 4 at some kind of post-wedding, post-reception wedding party, an introduction of the bride to the groom's family friends. Given my physical and mental state at the time, a warm basement couch accompanied by food and a 60" flat screen TV with the Giants and Jets games on simultaneously would have been, well absolute Heaven. But, alas I was stuck. 12 now felt like 12, with four hours more to go...four hours. It was like the time I was forced to go see Sense and Sensibility with my mom and sister when I was 10, except now I was expected to act civil and polite instead of whining.
Here are some statistics from those four hours. Number of, "I haven't seen you since you with THIS tall"'s I had to engage in conversation: 3. Number of "So, how's work"'s I had to lie to: 21. Number of points my fantasy team fell behind after Steve Slaton (or is that Satan?) was benched due to his 7th fumble of the season: 18. Overall, morale was low, especially after I got wind via ESPN mobile that Ted Ginn, Jr. returned his second kickoff for a touchdown against the Jets. 2 now felt like 1 and this party was not showing any signs of ending at on time.
4:45, that's when the party ended. As the sun dipped below the New Jersey tree line the earliest it had all year, I broke free from my family-shackles, went home, showered (again) in an attempt to subject my body to something pleasurable as opposed to the past 20-some-odd hours of pain, and headed over to my girlfriend's house for dinner away from my family. Though she doesn't have HD TV, her mom is head-and-shoulders above mine in terms of cooking, so although reheated pizza has its place in my heart and diet, filet of sol in a cream sauce with potatoes and broccoli followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream, all away from anyone present at that dreaded party, sounded pretty good. And it was.
By the time 8:20 rolled around, Favre had defeated his old team again, my fantasy team had fallen behind by 54 points (thanks again Slaton), and I had a full, warm stomach, happily awaiting the first pitch of game 4. I'm certainly not a Yankees fan, but as any good politician knows, the best way to unite people is to create a common enemy, so bound by my pure hatred for the Philadelphia Phillies, I watched with pleasure as the other New York team took care of business. One more win and the city of Philadelphia can forget about its hopes of dynasty. That’s a win for the Mets no matter how bad our season was.
11:30 felt like 3 a.m. as I closed my eyes on the first day of November. Another October had come and gone, another Halloween success was over. The days are shorter now for another few months, and although that can be a tough pill to swallow, the longer nights always seem to offer a feeling of mischievous fun. I look forward to the end of fall, the last few falling yellow leaves, Thanksgiving and the NFL playoffs. I put my head down, defeated by time once again but assured in the fact that it keeps on ticking.
Somehow my alarm this morning didn’t seem to feel any later. 6:55 is still simply too early.
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