Playing doctor.

Occasionally, I do dumb stuff. That is not to say I'm a dumb girl, but last night I put myself to the test. For most of yesterday I felt a little short of rotten. My head hurt; my tummy was wobbly and I just felt spent.
Thinking it was just the heat of our roasting apartment, I said, "Sure!" when The Mister called about a last minute happy hour at a co-worker's house. You see, the co-worker and her family are moving and they wanted to empty their house of food and liquor. Always ready to help, I jumped at the chance.
The Mister snagged me at 6:30 and -like the tools we are- we arrived before everybody else. A top-shelf margarita was made and passed straight to me.
Headache? Tummyache? Neither has stopped me before...
Around 9pm, I strolled over to The Mister and said, "Really, I think we should go."
I was not drunk, MAYBE a shade tipsy, but not drunk. With one margarita tied on, I was not even close.
By the time our chariot hit Georgetown I was sweating, moaning and begging to have the car pulled over. The curb was found, and I was out of the car in a flash.
ON MY KNEES IN GEORGETOWN. And not in the money-making way. As we were quite close to the hospital, I hoped a medical professional would happen upon me. The Mister is great, but a doctor he is not.
A lady did walk past and exclaimed, "Oh! Are you alright?"
She chuckled at my, "No, but it's okay..." as I gave her a thumbs up.
The Mister helped me up and back into the car's refreshing air-conditioning. The cold blast set me off, and thank goodness I had a couple of plastic bags handy.
Home and straight to bed. I think I might have a little bug. Or maybe the heat has gotten to me.
I still feel a bit cruddy as I didn't sleep well. And all of this keeps reminding me of my favorite line from "The Devil Wears Prada":
"I'm just a stomach flu away from my goal weight."
Not so much, but it makes me smile anyhow.

**Thanks and mad props to the boys for being such great friends on Tuesday night.**