I have an old friend who rolls through town about once a year on a company expense account. He calls me, usually with a day or less notice, and says to plan something extravagant. Last night, we indulged in decadence at Boulder’s finest hotel. This guy knows how to live it up. He is an executive and is accustomed to being treated like one. Not that he feigns superiority. Not at all. But hotels like this are created to cater to people who expect only the best as a matter of course. So, when we go out, I take lessons from him on how to own whatever room I’m in and allow myself to be treated like a queen.
Here’s how he orders dinner, “I don’t feel like reading the menu. I’d like something light and flavorful. Perhaps fish. Something that would go with a good bottle of Viognier. Can you find something that would suit me?” And, of course, at places like this, the waiter is totally comfortable with his tip riding on how well he can read this guy’s mind.
And here’s me: “Um, we better finish our wine before we hit the spa because they probably won’t allow it in the hot tub area.” Whereupon my friend gives me this look, calls me by name, and reminds that we are guests here, and therefore we get to do pretty much whatever the hell we want.
So, we started with appetizers and wine at the bar. (He sent back his Manhattan because he decided he was in the mood for wine instead.) Then we got into comfy robes and sat on couches, with hot wraps around our necks and our feet marinating in some frothy concoction of hot liquid. Then we each got hour long massages. (Now, I see why they tell you to not drink and sit in the hot tub or get body work. It pretty much immediately replaces all the blood in your arteries with alcohol and makes the less hearty among us get overly nauseous and dizzy.) After some post-massage lounging and grape eating, we got hot showers and proceeded to dinner. And more wine of course.
Jeeez, I’m such a lightweight anymore. I rarely ever drink just because I rarely ever get a craving for it. And when I do, one glass of wine is enough to give me unwelcome physical reminders that the word “toxic” is embedded in the word “intoxicated”. Last night, I had 3 1/2 glasses over about 4 hours. Not a lot by college standards, but enough to make me wake up at 4 AM to seriously need to empty the contents of my intestines and want the room to stop moving ever time my eyes shifted focus. (Why I didn’t have this problem before I went to bed is a bit odd.) The good news is that, although I could get used to being a bit of a louche, I’m at no risk of becoming a lush.
Breakfast today: graham crackers, gingerale with lots of bitters, and some naproxen sodium.