Going big and getting sick
That old saying, “you gotta pay to play” is true. Take it from me.I think I might have mentioned I went on this huge bender over New Year’s that lasted for like two weeks. I got a few small gigs mixing with a few celebrities and it went straight to my head. All of a sudden I’m rolling like those porn star chicks in Boogie Nights, hanging out with a fast paced crowd. It’s not like I had sex in front of cameras or anything, it’s more the ambiance I’m going for. You know, lots of excess and people who are comfortable with it. No boundaries, late nights and lots of being bad, which has always been my No. 1 favorite thing.I’ve decided this is how to live. I embraced my wild side and figured I might as well live it up while I can. Might as well go big and rack up some memorable experiences, even if I probably won’t remember them the next day. Might as well stay out all night since the only thing I have to worry about is a big black dog who is now sufficiently medicated and will survive the night without me. I fancied myself sort of glamorous and free-spirited, doing what writers do, at least before they decide to go and shoot themselves in the head. (Oh, relax. I’m just being melodramatic).Then one day I wake up and I don’t feel so good. I get a nosebleed and really start to feel like Roller Girl (even though it’s probably just from the dry air). The back of my throat stings and I have a headache. Even though I’m trying to stay balanced with running, Bernadette’s class, and yoga (Detox to retox, I always say) it’s not really working. I realize it’s probably not the best idea to workout so much when I’m only getting a few hours of sleep each night, but I do it anyway.So of course my fast friends have all moved on to more exciting things and I’m sitting around feeling kind of bored and sick (or sick and tired) so I go, “Okay, Princess, time to pull yourself out of the gutter and go get some work.”I decide to pitch the New York Times on this ridiculous story I assume they’ll never go for. I get an e-mail from my editor two days later that says, “Brilliant! Can you leave tomorrow?”They send me up to Sun Valley, Idaho, to cover The Honda Ski Tour, which is essentially one big party with a little bit of skiing mixed in. It’s 20 below zero the entire time I’m there and the itinerary each day basically goes: ski contest, après- ski party, outdoor concert, bar party, and then after-hours party. The biggest party is on the final night when the thing is supposed to be over.Just when I thought I was going to drown in my own phlegm, I find myself in this mansion that has a climbing wall in the living room and heated pool and amphitheater outside. I’m standing two inches from Tommy Lee who is spinning records and playing to the crowd, handing out glasses of champagne and dancing topless with all his tattoos and muscles and nipple rings hanging out. I’ve never been into the skinny rock star type, but this guy is so sexy that I can honestly say watching him was as good as a strip bar must be for guys. His facial expressions alone exuded sex in such a graphic way that I found myself getting totally aroused by it. Not many men emanate that kind of sexuality. He’s totally hairless and ripped and has a very young body still. It kind of made me rethink some of that stuff I said about metrosexuals in my last column – I mean Tommy is hairless and wears body jewelry but oh my god, is he ever manly.More celebrities and more late nights: great, just what I need.At this point, I’m so sick I can barely breathe. I feel like some old guy who should be cruising around in a wheel chair with a bag of oxygen. Not only that, now I have to travel 12 hours back to Colorado only to stay up all night writing this damn article that’s due like, yesterday.I’m up at my parent’s house and my mom feels bad for me so she takes me out to do little girl things to make me feel better like get our nails and hair done. We’re talking small town salon in a strip mall that’s like maybe 200 square feet where all the ladies sit around with foils in their hair talking to each other about their kids. My hair turns out a little on the orange side, but I decide it’s strawberry blonde and don’t say anything.Then I go to a tanning salon because I’m so pasty and sick looking I think maybe a little fake sun will make me feel better. It’s one of those standup cookers that’s super powerful so you only have to hang out there for nine minutes. I figure tan lines in January might give me away, so I decide to go commando. Between the hot dry air and ultraviolet lights I feel like a rotisserie chicken, except I’m standing still.Now not only am I still sick, I have orange hair and my butt and boobs itch on account of being burned in a human toaster oven. Also, my silver nail polish is already coming off.That’s perfect timing since the X Games circus has arrived and I’ve been hired by AOL to write a column called “The Bathroom Diaries” for their action sports site, Lat34.com.So if you see my little pretty feet under the stall and I’m in there for a while, I swear that’s all I’m doing – writing these clever little lines.The only drugs the Princess is doing these days have antihistamines. E-mail your get well wishes to Alison@berkleymedia.com.