Jennifer Plesko

Yesterday after work, I met a friend for happy hour and had two drinks. Afterward, I went to another friend’s house for dinner, and had some wine with my meal. I wasn’t even remotely drunk, but you see that no longer matters. This time last year, I would’ve hopped out of bed the next morning like it was no big deal. But ever since my last birthday, my body has decided to become a drama queen.

So instead of sleeping soundly through the night, I woke up at three a.m. sweating, sniffling, and dying of thirst. I went to the fridge and chugged an entire pitcher of water. Then I went back to bed. When my alarm went off about three hours later, it felt like someone had gone trailer park on me in my sleep. My body ached and my eyes looked like two marshmallows. What was in that wine? Tequila?

The last thing I wanted to do was wash my hair, so I ran some baby powder (what you fancy people call “dry shampoo”) through my bangs and put the rest in a ponytail. I hosed off the rest of me in the shower because I am considerate of others. I still felt bloated from the previous night, so I pondered what to wear. I looked over at the dresser and saw a polo shirt dress I’d just gotten in the mail still sitting in its envelope, so I tore open the package and put it on. No sucking in required.

Normally, when I am at work, my hair is freshly-washed and carefully straightened and I’m wearing an uncomfortable dress with uncomfortable stilettos. And wouldn’t you know - the day I am walking around with dirty hair, bloated, and basically wearing a long shirt…that’s the day I get the most compliments. Which begs the question: why do I try?