Phases of the Moon

Or, How I Ended Up at Centerfolds

Sometimes I wish I had the ability to understand phases of the moon. I know it's a very hippy-ish and somewhat trivial thing to know, but sometimes I think that the forces of nature exert more force on us iPod-toting, cell-phone yammering human beings would like to admit. If I had the knowledge of when the moon would be tugging our brains to one side of our heads and making us batshit crazy, I'd be smart enough to stay home and avoid all contact with other people.
Maybe it was the snow. For most of the week last week, I was running a circuit like sea lions swimming in the tank at the aquarium. Home, work, home. Home, work, home. Wake up, make the excruciating commute into the office, sit in front of my computer all day, get back on the train, go home and sit in front of my laptop wishing that it would somehow electrocute me because at least that would break up the monotony. I think I prayed for fire, locusts and plague all week. But it was too cold and snowy for any of those things, so instead I was left to entertain myself.
By either the fault of the moon, snow or chemical imbalance, Friday found me out of my mind. After the fifth consecutive day of a hellacious commute (it took me an hour and twenty minutes to make a twenty minute commute) and being in my house for the majority of the evening the night before, I was out of my mind. I'd lost all sense of professionalism, as I entered my cubicle, drop-kicked my lunch, removed my shoes to make sure my toes were still attached to my feet, and started cursing. And not quietly. I mean bellowing, booming, hate-filled tirades about the MBTA, how much I hated all of humanity and every single flake of snow that had ever fallen from the sky. Kristen and Kerri patiently listened to my ranting and commiserated, since the three of us had been flipping out all week long. Everyone's nerves were frayed, so I should have decided to pack it up at 5PM and go home to stew in my own misanthropy. Instead, I suggested that we head out for $4 pitchers of PBR after work. Kristen, Katherine and Katherine's boyfriend Sebastian agreed to go out, if only to escape the home-office-home continuum that had swallowed us whole for a week.
I was tired when I left work. I assumed it would be an early night since none of us had been paid in two weeks. We arrived at Jacob Wirth's and eventually flagged down the oblivious waitress. However, once she delivered the first pitcher of PBR, things started looking better. Kristen, Sebastian and Katherine talked football while I paid slight attention. Then we trashed talked work. We ordered some chicken fingers. We drank some more.
Somewhere along the line, Katherine called the Whatever to see what he was up to. He was at a retirement party for a coworker, but agreed to join us in Chinatown for some post-drinking noodles. Since he'd be a while, we ordered our fifth pitcher of cheap beer, and Sebastian made me ask the piano player to play "Fat Bottomed Girls" for everyone to sing along to. After the slurred rendition of the song we paid the remarkably low tab and shuffled reluctantly back into the cold and ducked into the first noodle house we saw.
Perhaps the moon was unusually close to the Earth around 11PM on Friday night. Maybe it was the five hours of drinking cheap beer that completely numbed my better judgment. I may have been exhausted. But someone brought up the idea of going to Centerfolds, Boston's classiest strip joint. And somehow, the Whatever convinced three girls and a tired guy to visit the strip club even though the evening should have ended with noodles and sake, not boobies and watered-down rum and Cokes.
I'd never been to a strip club before, so I rationalized it as a learning experience. While I know women's brains and libidos work differently from those of men, I just don't understand the appeal. At first, it's kind of hot to see a completely naked woman writhing around in public. Then the blonde is replaced by a brunette, and does the exact same dance. Walk around, dance with the dress on, slowly remove the skin-tight sequined dress, dance around with the thong on, slowly remove the thong (ass facing the audience), dance naked, gather up the money and leave. Then a brunette with glasses comes onstage and does the same dance, but with glasses. By the time the fifth dancer showed up, I'd sucked what little rum was in my Coke completely dry and was watching the basketball game on the big screen TVs on either side of the stage. Katherine and Sebastian had left, and Kristen and I were ready to go.
I didn't get home until 3:30, toting my leftover noodles and newly refreshed misanthropy up the stairs to my apartment. I drop-kicked my pocketbook, stubbed my toe on my roommate's suitcase, threw the noodles into the fridge and crankily went to bed. Saturday was a waste, since I'd woken up at 8:30 feeling just as cranky as when I'd went to bed. I managed to make it to a movie with my roommate, but was in bed at 8:30 on a Saturday night like a grounded junior high schooler.
I take comfort in the fact that I am not the only one who's been in a foul mood lately. Kristen's been angry with her roommate, my Mom was on an irrational tear yesterday and Kerri said she's been on edge too. I can only hope that the moon changes phases or that the snow continues to melt before I have no friends or loved ones left to be angry at.