I was in Barstow, CA on a commercial shoot that required the crew staying on site, overnight. It was the first time since I started work in the film industry back in June that I would be on set with my dad. I wanted to work hard, prove myself a kick @ss professional young woman, and bring great honor to my producer father.
But I also wanted to fit in and, you know, make new friends and stuff.
So when the coordinator on the job said the crew would be meeting for margaritas in the Barstow Motel bar, I feigned my concern about “drinking the night before an early call” for all of about a minute and a half before he “twisted my arm” into joining the party. I wore my super rad The Amazing Spider-Man sweatshirt, wide-framed geek glasses and had a small handful of party-time facial expressions on the ready. In short, I was feeling puh-retty fly.
And boy did this crew love to drink. It was on in the Barstow Motel bar.
You see I’m a pretty simple girl. I don’t usually partake in the consumption of spirits. I prefer other California pastimes. You know, like hiking and eating organic fruits and vegetables. My tolerance for alcohol is relatively low. And by relatively low, I mean a few drinks and I’m leading the group in a Broadway sing-along or speaking too candidly about my menstrual cycle.
One (1) beer and one (1) margarita later I was buzzing like a bee. This was perfect. I was right where I wanted to be, ie. completely breezy and totally killin’ it with my quirky, funny-girl quips. And so, I would turn down any further drink offers. How proud I was of my breezy, buzzy self to understand that one more drink and I would be drunk. Tonight, I thought, I will behave like a grown up, and I will make friends. Go me.
That’s when I got a flirty text from a Cute Guy I know.
Texting is the great frenemy of our generation. While convenient, it gives we mortals the power to say whatever we want, whenever we want, to whomever we want. It sucks us out of the present and throws us into a half-assed conversation with a computer version of someone else; repercussions are few and tone is anyone’s guess. No 20-something should ever have that power.
Now, as I said I was simply buzzed. I slipped my phone onto my lap and sent back a quick, flirty response. Breezy. This went back and forth maybe twice, until he ended his text with an ellipses […] and an emoticon [ ]. Nothing ups the ante in a text convo more than the ellipses/emoticon trick [… ]. Cute Guy and I had entered new text territory. My iPhone5 was hypnotizing. He was charming. I was witty. Even between texts, my eyes were glued to the screen, watching the “typing” indicator twinkle and dreaming of what he might say. I was no longer existing in the world taking place around me; I had to leave the party.
I pulled out my “hate to leave so soon” facial expression and started saying my goodbyes. There were fist bumps, hugs, and even a couple double-cheek kisses for the glam team. As I entered the courtyard of the magnificent Barstow Motel, I was overcome with what I can only describe as giddiness. Tonight, I thought, I have not only behaved like a grown up, but I have behaved like a cool, popular grown up and Cute Guy is blowing up my phone. Go me.
It was right about that point that I began dancing through the courtyard on my way back to my room. I’m talking twirls, arabesques, heel clicks; basically what Gene Kelly and/or Fred Astaire look like while expressing joy in any film you’ve ever seen them in. I was doing that in real life.
I bounded up the stairs to the second floor, when suddenly I realized that I had left my phone on the table. Cute Guy, I’m coming for you! I bounded back down the stairs and, filled with adrenaline, began running through the courtyard back toward the bar. As with most motels, at the Barstow Motel we entered our rooms from the outdoors by way of the courtyard. The bar is inside the main lobby through a large glass door. And despite my having just exited the building like a normal person, the buzzy giddiness had apparently overtaken me and I attempted to re-enter the building by very seriously running straight through said glass door.
Just like those crows in the Windex commercials, I ran face first into a plate of glass because I thought it was made of air.
Fortunately, I didn’t break it; I just bounced off of it like a basketball. I can recall a distinct flash of white and the next thing I knew I was lying flat on my back with my arms splayed out on either side. Also, my brain seemed to be doing somersaults in my skull. Within seconds, the soft-spoken lady office PA was bent over my face yelling, “are you dead?!”
Unfortunately for my poor, bruised ego, I was not dead. I probably just broke my nose.
20-somethings are like crash course dummies: barreling our way through one obstacle after another, deciphering what we can and cannot survive, re-calibrating, and going again. One [sometimes painfully embarrassing] software update after another.
What I knew about Kirsten before Barstow, CA:
- (1) Alcoholic Beverage + (1) Alcoholic Beverage + (1) Alcoholic Beverage More = Drunk
What I learned about Kirsten in Barstow, CA:
- (1) Blue Moon + (1) Margarita = Cool, Popular Grown Up Behavior
- (1) Blue Moon + (1) Margarita + Flirty Texting = Runs Face First Into Glass Doors
- (Running Face First Into Glass Doors) ≥ (Drunk)
Begin Software Update. Buzzed texting is drunk texting. Please use doors responsibly.