Famous philosopher Reese Witherspoon once said, “If something seems frightening or horrible, I should probably do it.” Much is the motto of my weekly escapades, meandering down the forgetful path to ethanol-fuelled self-destruction. To the society of sense and sensibility, that could have struck a dissonant note.
But luckily, I revel in the soothing comfort of soliciting no such services from the department of psychiatric therapy. Free from those zealous faces of haunting subjugation, I thrive again on the indulgence of society’s understandings. Unlike the fundamental theorem of aerodynamics, my Saturday night equation is one that demands resolution. A little bit like the one UN general assembly demanded on the Russian offensive in Ukraine. Armed with the grim knowledge of how that usually winds up, I rang my friend in sobbing fashion that my Tom Ford Tuscan Leather Eau de Parfum might have been involuntarily depleted.
Before I could interpret the interesting silence on his end, he reassured me that a few drinks are justifiably warranted, once again exposing me to the centre of the world for its caprice. Anybody with a modicum of imagination, however, dream occasionally of another life. I find myself wandering the streets of Soho during a sparkling winter day that is oddly reminiscent of summer in its cheering sunniness. Carefully curated windows pass me by, as I shuffle my way through rubbing shoulders with the finest specimens of East Village and abroad.
Unlike the swanky department stores and haute couture boutiques that terrorised Fifth Avenue, Soho stands a beacon of lively and often risqué vibes emanating a youthful air of no care. Courtesy of its elegant cast-iron facades and cobblestone streets, I find myself squiffy on chilled glasses of something rough while surveying the intermittent rain that imbues the city with Old World charm.
Each time I go to Court District in Des Moines, however, I have similar fantasies of other versions of me. I can imagine myself prattling about in those louche summer nights with few blurred faces censuring me in sotto voce that Long Island Iced Tea is not a manly drink. Thanks to a disabled frontal lobe, I succumb to their incisive criticism and conversations fall rather coquettishly. In this version of my life, I would be a regular at 208 3rd Street bathing in elaborate neon lights and contemplating another mouthful of cosmopolitan. Wearing the shameless badge of international debonair, I call my friend best mate and girls in garish threadbare my dearest darling.
Gleamed from the conversations, my savoir faire was rewarded and my gloating rights renewed. Although I cannot ask all the virtues into the bargain, courtesy of other psychoactive agents, I would be found too many Saturday evenings in a state of mild disarray – collecting my stream of consciousness in a disapproving pirouette, amidst the bombast of my gung-ho loquacity, my mind turns into one made up of butterfly wings. In the chosen vessel of mine it echoed that alcohol is truly god’s apology for making us self-aware, and helps shy people occasionally have sex. My Saturday night equation corroborates the testimony to the triumph that good will ultimately prevail, albeit too ephemeral to recall.
