Hitting rock bottom is hard. It infers that you’ve lost everything — your job, your family, your liquor license. But even in spite of being forced to involuntarily find yourself swimming in the depths of an all-time low, it can be argued that one thing shall and will, by the power vested in your poise, remain intact. And that is your dignity. In the event you have not sold it for drugs or a Spice Girl barbie, sometimes all you will need is a secure sense of personal decorum to get back on that saddle and giddy the fuck up.
When you hit social rock bottom though, you’re sailing (sinking?) on a different wrecked ship. Your finances may still be in tact, namely because you haven’t lost your job (sometimes, in fact, a social rock bottom could come in the wake of a promotion) and your family is definitely still loitering around your cosmos, made clear by the constant, badgering phone calls from your mother, that serve as a reminder to call your father, who is permanently offended that you’ve forgotten his birthday which, by the way, you did not. It was seven months ago and you bought him cufflinks.
But which one is worse?
You don’t have to answer that.
You do, however, have to acknowledge that contrariwise to Drake’s fervently popular lyric — the one that cantillates in tandem with a bunch of white pigeons exploding out of a stretched limo about starting at the bottom but then getting “here” (where is here, you know what I mean?) — the details of our own basements will always keep us grounded, and therefore at the very bottom that the Canadian rapper has escaped.
Take my social rock bottoms for example. They occur every Saturday night when I, a 24-year-old New Yorker, get home from dinner, take off my clothes, brush my teeth, wash my face and get into bed, grade of excitement almost offensive, to catch the night’s new episode of Saturday Night Live. When I turn on my TV, though — and this happens every single week — it’s only 10PM, which means I’ve got another hour-and-change to burn oil that certainly does not belong to midnight. Did I mention I am 24 and therefore fantastic at masking hangovers? What does the future hold for a woman who has forfeited her right to dive bars at the apex of her tender twenties? And furthermore, when will I learn that I don’t have to rush home for SNL at SUNSET O’CLOCK ON A WEEKEND?
Here’s another one that comes from a far more adventurous plane as imagined by a close friend, of another close friend, who has become the sexy selfie cognoscente. I’ve never seen anyone pool together so many dates with the mere camera click of an iPhone. Not even on Tinder. So picture this: she’s laying in bed, sending rapid fire text messages to a man she’s been coquetting. They are both typing, “baby, oh baby” at that pace that makes older people quip the same exact joke every single time: “Your fingers are gonna fall off typing that fast!”
Their exchange is chock full of additional defamations I will omit.
“Send a picture,” he finally begs.
“Fine,” she concedes, and so she gets up from her bed to pose in front of a skinny floor mirror leaning on the wall facing a window, in her bedroom.
“Hahaha,” he says back once she has finally sent it. And she is livid. Why in the name of Victoria’s Secret’s recently departed fashion show would he laugh at her suggestive pose and the coy sideboob she managed to relay without selling the whole cow?
“What’s with the underwear?” he writes again. And then she sees it: a besmirched, yellow-stained underpinning in the corner of the selfie.
Social rock bottom, folks.
But it keeps us grounded! So in the spirit of oversharing, please tell me all about yours.