I was walking home the other day from a day party, and I was wasted. I probably shouldn’t start off a story that way, but it’s the truth. I went out with a few coworkers turned real-life friends. You know that crossover from the second Happy Hour, where the conversation goes from your uptight manager to why you and that certain ex didn’t work out the way you both should have. We had crossed the threshold and were at a day party for the ages. Picture it: sun, drinks, hookah, strangers, dancing — the works. And I was having a blast.
I told them about my secret doubts, insecurities, and why I prefer pickleback shots, and I know I learned at least one new secret from each of them. Although, it’s not really a secret if you’re telling someone you trust. Anyway, the drinks were flowing, we were having a grand ghetto ball, and I looked at the time — it was 8 p.m. And before you say anything, we had been together since 1:30. That’s a max limit regardless of the relationship. It was time for me to go, and so I let the girlies know — after three bangers of songs — that I was leaving. Now at my age, I don’t feel bad about saying I’m going. I don’t think I’m letting anyone down. I wish I knew that in my younger years — aka my early 20s. Half the nights I barely remember, I stayed way too long for. But anyway, I was ready.
As I was leaving with one of my friends, Lisa, I found myself worried about the other two we were leaving. Now, it was still sunny out — the sun wasn’t setting for another hour — but I found myself nervous. Particularly for one of my younger coworkers, Nina. She’s 24, with the world in front of her and a head on way straighter than mine was at that age (despite the fact that I was fully living alone, working a full-time job, and preparing for grad school — but I digress). I wanted to make sure she was getting home safe. Nina had her car and was driving. She lived at home, had older sisters nearby, and a boyfriend who I’m almost positive has her location. Yet still, I was worried about her safety.
As Lisa and our fourth musketeer Francine convinced me Nina would be fine, I hobbled my way to the train station with Lisa. It was the moment I stood on that muggy platform that I realized just how wasted I was. Lisa and I chatted about — hell, I don’t know — unicorns, donuts, and rainbows, until the train pulled up. We boarded and confirmed she was getting off at the next stop to pick up her car. But me? I had to ride for a while, switch platforms, ride again, then get off and walk home. A normal commute if you’re going to work — but I was two sheets to the wind, in a dress that was a bit too short, and the only thing in my purse offering any sort of protection was hand sanitizer. I looked at Lisa and said, “You know, I am so sure I can take care of myself. I worry about others, but for me? I’m fine.”
And I know you’re wondering, Well, babe, you just said you were wasted — how do you know you said that? It’s because I wrote the same thing in my Notes, I could go down a separate tangent about how neotirc a girls Notes App is in her phone, but that’s for another time. I think I wanted to remember this realization, because it meant something.
I have always been so sure of myself when it comes to taking care of me.
I think I knew it since I was a child, honestly. I knew I could handle and look out for myself. When I was younger, it was about not being a burden to my parents — being small enough that I wasn’t an inconvenience. When my sisters were born, I had to take care of myself so someone could look out for them. And then, as I got older, I just knew I was responsible for making sure I would find a way out of any way. It never occurred to me to expect someone else to look out for me. Does anyone else feel that way? It’s not like — “oh, pity me.” It’s not even something to feel bad about. In some ways, especially when things work out in your favor, it’s kind of impressive.
But when everything feels lost, it feels like a desperate reminder: Get your shit together. Because you have to make it through — for you. It wasn’t until days later that I thought about how dumb that was. How many horror stories have I heard about the drunk girl walking home alone and meeting a horrific ending? I’ve been that girl who stares terror in the face and meets the new version of herself on the other side. Maybe that’s why I worry about my coworker. Or my sisters. Or my friends. Because I know how heavy it is to only look out for yourself, and it now being enough.
Call it eldest sister syndrome. Or only child syndrome. Or forgotten middle child. Or the youngest with the exhausted parents. Either way, the hyper-independent persona can be lonely. It’s an arrogance — to think you can only count on yourself. Because the truth is — you need people. I’m positive that I can and will always do what is necessary to keep moving forward. But I also know it would be even harder if I didn’t have people looking out for me along the way. I may be doing the main legwork — but there have been others there who cared enough to know that I’m making my way.
I made it home from that day party — drunk, adventurous — but I had a group of girls that cared enough to check and make sure I got home safe. I have friends in other states who have my location, just to check in. I had my mother, who hadn’t heard my voice in a couple of days, call me the next morning. I had mirrors — versions of me — looking out for someone like me. I have accomplished a lot in this life. And God willing, I have at least a little more to go. And for the majority of it, it’s been due to my perseverance.
The will to keep going, to try something new, has been the small wick that ignited growth and experience. But it’s also been the people around me that made the difference. I hope that if you’re reading this, and you’re anything like me, that you notice that too. That even when it feels like you’re going at it alone — you’re not. And if you care — even give an ounce of a crap — about someone else, it’s probably because someone along the way has done the same for you. Or at the very least, you wished they had.
When I cared about Nina getting home, it wasn’t because I didn’t think she could figure it out. It’s because I wanted her to know there was a cushion if things went wrong — or if she needed help finding her way. I was sitting at the bar today, talking to my friend Mel — I know, I’ve named like 10 people in this story; I probably shouldn’t ever complain about loneliness. She’s a little older than me, beautiful and smart, the type of person who’s lived 17 lives in one. She was giving me advice about some mistake I thought I made, some ways I wish I had done things differently. She encouraged me to give myself grace. To see how much I’ve grown.
We downed two martinis, laughed, blinked back tears, and closed our tabs. We walked out of the establishment, stood at the corner — she went left toward her car, and I went right toward the train. I traveled home without a second thought. And once I got there, I pulled out my phone to check on her — only to find that she had texted me first:
“Home?”