1) “The last time I saw you, you were riding around ass-naked on a motorcycle!”
2) “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, slow down. Are you even speaking English?”
3) “Can I be your maid of honor?!”
4) “When can we move in? Seriously, I’ll take it.”
...A list of things you should not say to: 1) a woman who is clearly flirting with a dude she just met; 2) a stern-looking Australian man in the middle of making a point; 3) your (newish) friend; and 4) the guy whose party you’re attending, after he mentions that he's actually renting out the room in which you're standing.
This was New Year’s Eve— my New Year’s Eve, for which I decided to reinvent myself as Jennifer Lawrence’s American Hustle character from that scene when she brazenly stomps toward a group of sexy gangsters at a sexy bar and flirts her tits off. She’s outspoken, funny, beautiful, drunk—the life of the party! In retrospect, I was at least two of these things that night, although at the time I felt I truly excelled in all categories. I even gave myself dreamy blonde ringlets and casually emasculated my boyfriend before we made our way to our destination.
The come-down didn’t occur until after I'd bragged to him about my performance the next morning. I went on and on about how quick-witted I was, cracking jokes, making everybody laugh. Making friends. The opposite of being the worst person on the planet.
That warm wave of nausea and regret came over me the moment I picked my plunging silk party dress up off the floor, its stench of other people’s cigarettes and cheap brandy filling my nostrils. Then came the flashbacks: the horrified look on the naked bike chick’s face, the half-smile and nervous laugh from the bride-to-be, the “Alright, it's yours! You better not be fucking with me!” from the large scary man with the room for rent. I wasn’t sure if I should be completely mortified or instead go with the ignoramus assumption that people were laughing with me and not at me (and that I wouldn’t be offed by a dastardly group of naked biker chicks for failing to pay rent at my new place).
Then, the regret faded and a new sensation emerged: thirst. “Waterrr! Wat errrr!” I begged, burrito-ing myself in the comforter only to roll off the edge of the mattress and under the bed. “It’s cooler down here. For real though: can you bring me a glass of water?” My boyfriend plodded into the kitchen.
And thus my 2014 New Year’s Resolution was thrust upon me in these, the first hours of the new year: drink more water. Make no mistake: I'm doing this for all the health benefits that come with optimal hydration—too myriad and too dealing-with-digestive-issues-and-pimples to discuss in detail here. And there's the beauty aspect—not sure of the science here other than that every Victoria's Secret Angel and Angel-In-Training (you know, PINK models) swear that “drinking lots of water' is the reason they're always so goddamn pretty. * *chugs Evian * * Actually, it'd be great if they would just go ahead and bedazzle “WATER' on the back of the next round of neon seamless boyshorts as a discreet reminder that if we want to keep wearing neon seamless boyshorts, we need to drink more of the stuff.
Yeah, let's not forget the weight-loss part. I'll tell you straight-up that, for me, lazy weight-loss is the ultimate goal here, as it is with most things I do, including but not limited to laundry and leaving my apartment for social obligations. Chalk it up to being an impressionable teen during the Hilton/Richie/Lohan years.
It's just water, you're probably thinking. Easy. Maybe more so than quitting smoking or dragging your ass to the gym, but believe me when I say that I’ve tried the whole more-water thing before and failed, exceptionally. I even went so far as to set alarms on my phone, hoping I’d eventually develop a Pavlovian response to Apple’s “Marimba,” the sound of which would have me jonesing for some deliciously tasteless H2O. Didn’t work. I remained dehydrated throughout much of last year–and not in the glamorous cancel-the-rest-of-my-tour way.
We could quantify this experiment to the standard eight glasses per day, which I read/heard on some morning show should be around eight ounces each. Always the competent researcher, I turned to the Mayo Clinic website for some clarification: “Although the ‘8 by 8’ rule isn't supported by hard evidence, it remains popular because it's easy to remember.” Damn, had I just been incepted?
The guide went on to say that appropriate water intake should be individualized to account for any illnesses, pregnancy or breast-feeding, and exercise–none of which I suffer from. A good rule of thumb is to pay attention to your urine; you should be expelling about 6.5 cups of colorless-to-light-yellow fluid per day. Gross! In other words: highlighter-green or goldenrod = bad; fresh butter or (flat) Crystal Pepsi = good.
I’ll keep the info about being able to meet water intake goals through consuming beer, wine, and coffee in my back pocket, but I’m going to try my damnedest to stick with pure H2O—at least a full glass before, and then during each meal, since I'm historically terrible at remembering to drink water at any other time of day. (Note: some people say you should wait at least 20 minutes after eating to consume water, lest you dilute your digestive juices, but I'm not quite there yet.) The only water ritual I have no issue maintaining is my first-thing-in-the-morning concoction of ice-cold water, apple cider vinegar, and fresh lemon juice, which my holistic-minded friends and role models (the hot ones) tout as being the ultimate in body cleansing, weight loss, and skin clearing.
But be warned! You can actually have too much of a good thing, or in our case a commodity that we take for granted when it comes out of our faucets but pay exorbitant amounts for in French aerosol form: drinking too much water will stop making you pretty right around the point that it KILLS YOU. (Read.) So, again, watch your urine, and maybe call your doctor before getting too hopped up on Adam’s Ale.
And on that delightful note, join me in a big, watery cheers to 2014!
—Annie Kreighbaum
Photo by Elizabeth Brockway.
