I know for a fact that all six readers of this blog find it HIGH-larious when I embarrass myself and then write about it here. Folks, this one's for you.
I spent Thanksgiving in San Francisco with my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my ridiculously cute nephew, and family friends. Yay, Thanksgiving! The only potential snag: I was taking the redeye back on Sunday night, which is not my favorite-ist thing to do, except everything would be cool this time because I had Ambien, right?
Well, not exactly. I KNEW I packed it -- I remembered taking half a pill out of the pill cutter, wondering how I could pack it, then just bottling that half-pill and tossing the bottle in the suitcase -- but then, on Friday night, I realized the bottle was nowhere to be found. It was a full bottle, and that shit is both difficult to obtain and expensive ... not to mention, you know, my one remaining link to sanity. I ransacked my suitcase twice. Panic ensued. Then rage, after I told people and their first response was generally "Someone stole it! It was the TSA! They pull this crap all the time!" Dun dun DUN! I nearly rushed to this blog to write about it but then remembered the Great Mouse Non-Incident of 2008 and thought, well, perhaps I should gather some proof this time, yes?
Well, whether there was a ring of sleep-deprived Ambien thieves at the TSA or I was just a forgetful idiot (those two things not being mutually exclusive), the fact remained that I had a dreaded redeye flight in my future, and no Ambien to soothe the blow. Rage gave way to distress. Then I went to a party on Saturday night at which I happened to mention my dilemma -- to much "those thieving TSA bastards" sympathy -- and the host, a friend of a friend of mine, said, "Oh, do you need some Ambien?" He cheerily produced a plastic bag, plucked out a bottle and teased a single pill onto my palm. And this was the real stuff, not the generic kind that I usually take. Best. Party. EVER.
Sunday night. Airport. Let's forget about the part where I left my keys at my brother's place, which I didn't realize until I was already at the terminal and he was already back home, so he had to come all the way back to the airport and bring them to me. (I am such an awesome houseguest.) Anyway, I'm on the plane, and I take half the pill, which I'd very crudely cut up/mangled with a kitchen knife, because normally a full dose is a little too much for me. I fall asleep, only to wake up a couple hours later, and now I am pretty wide awake and there is nothing on TV except what appears to be Angel, so I ... take the other half.
Mistake! Mistake! MISTAAAAAAKE! When I wake up at JFK a couple hours later (remember that when you take Ambien, you are supposed to get a full eight hours sleep), I am still under the influence. Please understand that being awake and under the influence of Ambien isn't like being drunk; you're fully conscious and aware, you just don't have absolute control over your motor skills.
It's not that I've never had this sensation in the comfort of my living room, but it's odd and alarming to be experiencing it in public. I wander off the plane in a daze. I have trouble walking -- I feel as though I'm just putting each foot forward in order to keep from falling on my face. I run into a few poles when I can't quite maneuver my suitcase around those dangerous hairpin turns. For some reason, I take one look at the long line for cabs and decide I'd be better off taking the subway home instead. So I do this, and I'm handling it just fine until I decide to get up and look at the map in the subway car, trying to figure out where we are on the F line (yeah, I didn't know the F went that close to the airport, either). I'm studying the map when the train starts up again -- you know, as trains do -- hurtling me first one way, into the laps of two strangers on my left, then the other way, onto the laps of two strangers on my right. I apologize profusely, and when an older woman asks me if I need help, assuming that I'm a tourist, I lamely say I was just trying to figure out how long it is until we hit Manhattan. "We're still in Queens," she says, slowly. Strangely, the other people I knocked into have all vanished.
Home at last. I haul my suitcase up to the front of my apartment building, open my purse to root around for my keys ... and promptly tumble straight down the stairs. These would be concrete steps. They hurt. There is blood, and the sudden surety that my knees are about to turn several shades of black and blue. I briefly consider, then discard, the possibility of closing my eyes and taking a nap right then and there. I manage to stumble inside and send an email to work saying I just biffed it on my apartment steps and will be working from home today, and fall asleep for three hours.
But before I send that email or hit the couch, I go into my bedroom and check the nightstand, and what do I see there?
A full bottle of Ambien.
Have a great week, everyone. Don't take drugs. In public. And if you do, then wear kneepads.
UPDATE: I have been informed that the Ambien I was given was 12.5 mg -- the strongest pill available. My prescription is for 10 mg pills. I usually take half a pill. You do the math. It's a wonder I didn't wind up in a hospital ... on the other hand, my "I'm working from home because I just fell down the stairs while high on Ambien" has provided my colleagues with endless entertainment, so at least I've brought some joy to the lives of others. And that's what counts, right?
