It was 10pm on a Friday night when a tidal wave of anxiety hit me.
It had been a ferocious week at work – I had a bunch of deadlines that needed to be met, and not enough time to meet them. I purposefully got into work at 6am – hours early – and was chained to my desk for the next 12 hours.
When I turned up to my girlfriend’s engagement party at 7pm, I could feel a concoction of exhaustion and stress fizzling away inside my chest. I was irritated that I didn’t have time to go home and get ready like I had planned, instead, I had to hurriedly do my makeup and hair at work and hop in a taxi.
I had downed a few champagnes and chatted with my closest group of girlfriends while our partners mulled over the prospects of cryptocurrencies. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to see the bride-to-be, A*, with her needing to tend to all the guests, but was surprised that we actually had so much time together.
It was a gorgeous event. So many of the people I love were in the same room.
Because I hadn’t eaten all day, the alcohol hit me harder than it normally would. Within an hour of being there I felt tipsy; within two I was merrily drunk. I felt like the stress had washed away with a few glasses. It was a huge relief, and I was having the best time.
And that’s when the text came.
“Is Hayley so f**king slow at the moment, or is it just me? She was sh*t this week.”