She's a Woman

Friday May 16th/2014

Three major things have happened with the coming of May. My brother, Josh, returned to London, now holding the same visa I do. I temporarily moved into The Alex and shortly after was unofficially evicted. I turned 25. All of which happened within three days of each other. Allow me to elaborate.

With the return of my brother, came the end of my stay at Stuart House, and my resignation as Dan the Man's house mate. Josh moved back into his room, and I was to still reside in The Alex, despite my not so long ago termination. Carmen had offered me her room until I figured out my next place of residence. The humour I found in the fact that I'd still be living in the very place that canned me was priceless. I dragged my ridiculous number of suitcases from Josh's to the bar, cursing my inability to pack logically. Four days passed (one being my birthday) with my belongings inhabiting The Alex, and not much else. I was still spending every night at Chris's, and every day working at the bar that shall remain unnamed, so Carmen's room was literally nothing more than a storage unit. Wednesday May 7th, Josh's birthday, and what would be remembered as the second time that bloody pub would screw me over. I awoke to a text from Carmen asking if I could meet her to talk. I was getting kicked out. I knew it. And sure enough, I was right. Protocol this, fire hazard that. Whatever the reason was (this sentence, in person, would include air quotes and a mild eye roll), I once again found myself vacating The Alexandra with less than I had entered with. Only this time I wasn't scared of what was to come. Pissed? Upset? Of course, it's me. But not scared. Things work out. They always do. So I towed my baggage back through the streets of Clapham for the millionth time and landed, again, at the unnamed bar. A place that seems to have become my sanctuary amid the endless chaos of my involuntary vagabond lifestyle. My entire life now sat in the handicap bathroom of the bar, without a clue as to where it would settle next. Did you miss me recently explaining what a control freak I tend to be? I should win an award for how calmly and sanely I dealt with this situation. I didn't even get drunk in order to sedate myself (another tendency I've accumulated). What was the point? My upside down life had reached the point of comical. There was a moment during my shift that night, where a parcel arrived packed with Trooper Ale pint glasses that we would never use. 

"Look at me. I'm a friggen trooper! This glass was made for me. I'm totally taking one home." A moment of realization…. "Ha! I don't have a home!" I broke out in uncontrollable laughter. Because what else are you going to do? At this point, it's just fucking funny. In order to not run home to my Mommy, it has to be funny. It's hysterical. 

So now my belongings and I have come to a brief separation period. They are currently sharing a room with my incredibly kind brother, back at the Stuart House, while I continue to shack up at the Irish bachelor pad-dy. Ha! The bachelor paddy. I'm funny. Chris would cringe at this witty new title. 

So 1)Josh moved back. 2) I'm a homeless waif. And now 3) Happy Birthday to me!

To be honest, the fact that it was happy was unexpected. I have feared turning 25 since the moment my 24th birthday ended. Mind numbing fear to be more precise. The dreaded quarter of a century. My mid-twenties. My mother was pregnant with her first child at 25. Married, with a career, and a mortgage. I work at a bar where I'm drunk 90% of my clocked hours and my last known address is the bathroom stall of said bar. A fairly even comparison. If only that was the worst of it. A few days before the impending "celebration", stupid ginger beard thought it would be entertaining to pull out as many grey hairs as he could find on my head. He finished, not because he had rid my scalp of all intruders, but because of boredom. There were many more, I was told, as he handed me what could have easily been mistaken for a horse tail's worth of white hair. Chris is younger than me. This did not help my mind numbing fear. 

The day before the big day, what was meant to be a chill Sunday evening of pints at Tommy's bar, took a turn for the better, finding us back at the unnamed bar, then shortly after, a turn for the worse, finding me head first into a toilet. Turns out my birthday happened to land on a bank holiday in the UK (which will now officially be known as Chelsea Day, We love Chelsea Day-- working title) so Sunday Funday, became Sunday Funday on steroids. The minute midnight hit someone yelled, 

"It's Chelsea's birthday!"

Everyone, "Happy Birthday Chelsea!"

Shots. I remember shots. I remember drinks appearing before me while I hadn't even finished the previous. Then more appearing just seconds after the one before the last disappeared into my bloodstream. More shots. God, I hate Sambuca. And tequila. Jaegermeister can suck my balls. Yet still, more shots. Someone picking me up and spinning me around. A moment of nausea repressed by another shot. A brief recuperation period in the staff area downstairs. Another cider. A momentary camp out on a bathroom stall floor to regain what little was left of my composure. A victory lap… stumble… around the bar. Shots. Nausea that could not be tamed with more shots. The possibility of immanent death. I need to go home. The next morning, Chris would inform me that I left the bar doors and instantly seemed perfectly sober and far from death. Until the minute we entered his house where I dashed to his bathroom, where, as previously mentioned, I would end my night face down in the toilet, inches away from own vomit, Chris sitting behind me, holding back my hair. 

The next morning, the morning of May 5th, the morning I became old, I awoke to the vague memory of me running around the unnamed bar chanting, "I'M 25! I'M 25!" 

I need to not be awake. 

The second time I regained consciousness was to the sound of Christopher's voice,

"Happy Birthday Chelsea."

A vast improvement. I rolled over to kiss him and was quickly reminded just how much I had to drink the night before as my insides considered becoming my outsides. What a way to welcome the age of 25. Get so drunk the previous night that you wake up feeling closer to 75, or more accurately circling the drain. But there was no time for self pity, and nothing left in my upside-down stomach to regurgitate. I had a twelve o'clock date with Tommy for legitimate birthday pints at The Alex, and at the rate I was currently capable of, it would be a week before I'd make it there. 

12:45. I arrived to a less than please Irishman, alone with his guinness. Luckily for me, Tommy had been partying just as hard (well maybe slightly less hard) with me the night before and was well aware of the state I would inevitably be in this morning. Of course, this didn't stop him from getting in a few warranted stabs before treating me to my first pint of cider as a twenty-five year old woman. Tommy then walked me to the unnamed  bar where we met Chris, and along with my fellow staff, nursed our hang overs with the notorious hair of the dog. A quick call in to Clapham North Pub to meet Angela, Bernie, Bryan, and baby Bobby for, you guessed it, more pints, then off to meet Josh and our Canadian friend, Cai at The Falcon, to line our stomachs with a bit of nourishment before continuing on with an evening fit for an alcoholic King. I downed my free birthday pint, curtesy of a dear friend, and fellow local bartender, before I introduced stupid ginger beard to my brother. An hour passed and it was official. They got along. I could even go as far as to say they liked each other. (That staying single thing is really giving me a run for my money.)

After feasting on traditional bangers and mash, the most amazing burger, and whatever you call those little lightly battered and fried fish that people eat whole, (whitebait?) we made our way to the infamous Alex where the party was officially to begin. For the record, I shared these dishes. I have to emphasize this because with me, it's more than likely, and a fair assumption to think that I devoured everything solo. The Alex was filled with everyone. The Dead Rabbits, all of my beloved regulars (both from the Alex and unnamed bar), and my favourite barwench co-worker, standing in front of them all with a big grin on her face. I couldn't have felt more loved if I tried. A chocolate birthday cake courtesy of Mulrooney and a rendition of the birthday song that could have been heard all the way back in Canada, proved me wrong. We closed the Alex and stumbled back to the unnamed bar where we became the night's riff raff (as my barwench would say), partying hard into the early morning hours. My fear of being 25 had subsided, or been sedated heavily by alcohol consumption. I had entered my mid-twenties surrounded by so many amazing friends. I couldn't have asked for a better celebration, or better people to have shared it with. London may find some morbid delight in making me leap over every obstacle imaginable, but every once in a while, she'll let me know I'm doing alright. And when she does, it makes everything else worth the while.