Today is my first Sunday off in ages.

I had planned to do a lot with this glorious free Sunday, gifted to me by the roster gods. I had intended to use the overripe bananas in my fruit bowl to make healthy banana oat pancakes for breakfast after a light jog in the sunshine. Perhaps I’d go to the markets or take a bushwalk in this native reserve not far from my house. Maybe I’d power sand that old writing desk I’ve been planning on converting into a shabby yet tasteful plant and whiskey stand. Or I could even get cracking on the cook booklet I’ve now committed myself to write.

But life rarely goes to plan when you’re a pisswreck with limited stocks of self-control.

I’ve woken up on this, my free Sunday, with a stinging headache, having very little memory of how I made it into bed. My mouth tastes like bad breath. My stomach feels like it’s full of stubbed out cigarettes, handbag crumbs and full cream milk five days past its best before date. I spent far too much money on frozen margaritas and prawns. I ingested countless calories, essentially cancelling out all the time I’d spent at the gym through the week. I have a slight shakiness to me, which suggests I may not be able to keep my cup of tea down for long. To summarise, I will quote the message I sent to my sister earlier this morning: “my life huts”.

But still, there’s plenty for me to be proud of.

Because, while looking at my past Uber trips, I’ve learned that I went home before 9pm. After several frozen tequilas, I could sense that I was heading down a bumpy and potentially embarrassing path. I had tipped past the threshold of tipsy and, having not had access to a dance floor, I was headed into emotional drunk territory. The signs were there. I was wondering off for some air by myself, staring out at the water dramatically. I’d told my sister that her saying I couldn’t bring my friends she’d never met to her husband’s birthday party to pre-drink for a wedding had “actually hurts my feelings”. I’d started getting sniffly. I was in a tequila cloud and the fog was not clearing.

I took notice of these signs and acted accordingly, stepping in and sending myself home. This is quite impressive for me, as a person who has a poor track record of knowing when too much is quite enough. So, at 8.50pm, I told my friends that it was time for me to leave and ordered an Uber away from potential drunken disaster.

I’d sent no emotional messages I’d live to regret (drunk spats with sisters don’t count, that’s the beauty of sisterhood). I made no phone calls to former flames. I didn’t require a complete stranger to comfort me as cried in public. I had no cause to unclog my own vomit from a nightclub bathroom hand basin because the clumps from my stomach blocked the drain and filled the entire sink with sick.

This was a monumental victory on my part.

And, based on my preliminary enquiries, I made some good decisions when I arrived home. My teeth have been cleaned. My body, showered. My face is devoid of all traces of makeup. I even managed to put my scrunchie away in its rightful place (in the Queensland Polo Association’s 1957 gold cup I found at an op shop, where I keep all my colourful scrunchies). Sure, my breath probably stinks, the booze fumes leaching from my pores suggests a long shower is necessary and there’s a pale smear of foundation on my pillow but, generally, I’m in good shape.

I haven’t stepped on any glass or bunged up my ankle. I can’t see any unexplainable bruises. A quick inventory of my handbag suggests I have not lost anything. I’ve just checked my text messages and seen the only drunk plan I made for today was a leisurely morning tea at my house at the extremely reasonable time of 11am. My Uber rating is a respectable 4.78.

These are all signs to celebrate. And so I’m going to do that, raising a glass of bubbly Eno to myself and my progress to becoming a less ridiculous person.

Cheers!