Written January 2019 – unedited
A few months back I was out on the town with my bestie and her work crew who have kind of adopted me as one of their own. (I am just waiting to be added to the payroll. There seems to be some issues.) They had flown in from Durban for the 7’s rugby and it was supposed to be a quiet pre-event dinner. As if.
I should have known with this lot. It turned out to be anything but. The drinks and conversations flowed. I laughed so much my stomach hurt (Does laughing count as an ab workout?) We moved the party from club to club, dancing, and singing and laughing. I was in my element. Having the best time ever. Let’s have another drink. Let’s dance again. I wished the night would never end.
Then suddenly, I hit the wall.
That time of the night when mid-song, mid-drink I knew I was done. Over it. Home time. Others tried to talk me out of it, just a little longer, we will leave just now, but I was having none of it. No warning. Just like that I was done, party time over. It was club duvet.
We were chatting about it the next night, when after a full day of 7’s rugby entertainment (read day drinking), a few of us hit that proverbial wall. When I hit that wall, I call it a day and go home. Others like to push through, climb up the wall, peak over the top and get lured into climbing over the wall and carrying on. Dig deep they said. Push hard. Power through. I have done that before in my youth, more times that I can remember but now, I think of the kids and what my Sunday would look like if I keep going and then suddenly, I feel like I aged 20 years. I put my responsible cap on and head home.
What was the point of this little anecdote you may be thinking? I wanted to describe to you what “hitting the wall” means for me. In this social scenario, even though I was having so much fun, really loving it, and could have physically danced the night away, mentally I hit the wall and immediately wanted to revert to my comfort zone – Home, bed, duvet and shut off from the world.