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You reach an age where day drinking on a Sunday is no longer a viable option given that a hangover on Monday will feasibly ruin your entire week. You move from “let’s just see what happens” brunches to “I’m going to have a couple beers this afternoon while watching the game.” It’s a devastating transition where your mind overcomes your body’s inner-need to order three pitchers of blood orange mimosas, but it’s a necessary evil that pays dividends when you’re not wanting to blow your brains out at the Keurig while getting your work week started.
That is, unless you decide it’s a good idea to partake in the yuppiest of yuppie events with two other couples – A Brunch Crawl.
I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that everyone on this crawl wouldn’t consider themselves to be, in some manor, yuppie scum. Bar crawls are reserved for college students while brunch crawls are reserved for late-twenties and early-thirties professionals looking to torture themselves by committing to be hungover on Monday.
The concept was simple: we each buy tickets for $35 a piece and we get unlimited food and drinks at three various restaurants all within walking distance of one another. $35 is an absolute steal when you consider an out-of-hand brunch can cost you a sum that would pay for your utility bill, but that’s probably why the brunch crawl sold out in just hours.
Among our group was one person who had a violent hangover after attending a football game at his alma mater. Without naming names – actually, scratch that, his name was Dave and he manages this very website. His hesitancy and resistence to remove his sunglasses from his face even while inside was a trademark brunch move that’s similar to wiping one’s face with two hands or having to leave the table to throw up.
When you arrive somewhere and you’re sitting on a patio surrounded by other couples and cocktail waitresses handing out all-you-can-drink mimosas and bloody marys, things happen. And by “things,” I mean people getting drunk at a rapid pace while eating nothing but toast covered in cheese and avocado coupled with some breakfast pizzas.
Let me be clear – I take zero issue with people getting blitzed at brunch. I actually encourage it because brunching is fun. But let me also be clear about another issue at hand – I don’t encourage myself to get bombed at brunch. Don’t get me wrong – I love it; it’s fun. But the last thing someone needs to be doing when they suffer from chronic Sunday Scaries is amplifying them by jumping restaurant to restaurant, patio to patio while taking down mass quantities of orange and pink-colored drinks.
Before long, it became evident that I too was going to have to keep my sunglasses on for the duration of the crawl. Not to cover up a pair of hungover eyes, but to cover up the token drunk eyes that I’ve been diagnosed with since the tender age of 18. The issue with eating avocado toast – which should soak up most of the mimosas – is that I began drinking the mimosas before I ate the avocado toast. For some, it all works the same. For others (namely me), post-mimo chowing doesn’t work the same and my day ends with a drunk nap where I wake up at 8 p.m. with dry mouth searching for a bottle of water.
But that didn’t stop me, or anyone else, for that matter. We sat there, we drank, and we made sure everyone that follows us on every form of social media saw our every move. Overhead shots of our food? Took ’em. Boomerangs of people drinking and cheersing? Yeah, add those to the pile. Entirely-too-lame photos of every single one of my drinks? Yep, had to do a little clean-up when I woke up, but that’s just the price you pay for going balls to the wall on a brunch crawl.
By our third venue, things had spiraled. No longer was the group segregated like you’d see at a middle school dance. People were sitting at picnic tables discussing God knows what, the riverside pingpong tables were filled with heated competition, and we were all sipping pinot like the world was going to end.
As I sit wondering what went wrong, I realize that I’m not even sure if something did go wrong. I had plans and obligations to fulfill after the brunch crawl, but I should’ve known that none of those would ever happened. When was the last time you went to an all-you-can-drink event and left with the mental acuity to do anything but fall face down onto your bed and forget to plug your phone in? Yeah, exactly.
I guess that’s why I’ve outlawed myself from the horribly-named Sunday Fundays and opt to watch romantic comedies while living vicariously through Instagram. But hey, sometimes you have to embrace your inner-yuppie get champagne drunk on Sunday mornings in an effort to keep you honest for the Sundays that follow. No one said life was going to be easy. .