Mighty Risky

(I wrote this last night and didn't hit publish)

I sometimes forget that I am not 27 anymore. I'm not even 37, dammit.

I'm still bruised up from my fall. And sore. I am, per my new scale, losing a few pounds. But it could be a false read - after all, it's a different scale, different floor and a whole new state. Here's what I can tell you.  Beer is not dinner. Last night, in a fit of boredom, I had dinner at the bar.  Well, that was the intention. I ordered a beer, and started talking with some folks and ended up with three beers and no food. But it was nice to just shoot the shit with strangers who didn't know me. One of the guys worked in heavy equipment, and that was in my wheelhouse. I could speak to it intelligently and I felt important and smart.

Being the new girl is hard. Everyone knows more than me. And while everyone is nice, I don't know anything about their jokes. And my boss is a great trainer. To be fair, if I knew the material, I would be more comfortable and engaging. I still think I could use some of her technique and be a better trainer.  So, I will.

But it stings a little not being the top dog.

Long story boring, by the time I got to my room, I realized that three pints of beer was about three pints too many.  It was a bad idea.  There were bed spins.  Who gets bed spins from beer?  Me, that's who.

This morning, I felt rough. Sore throat, stomach kind of queasy... I ate a protein bar and had a Coke Zero, and felt better.

So tonight, when we got back to the hotel, it was clear that my colleagues were done for the night. We parted ways, I went to my room and paid some bills.

And then I went to dinner.  No chatter, no beer.  Just a small quesadilla, a club soda with lime and a quick signature on the check.

 And that's better, I think.