Another Day, Another Bridget

It's very enlightening when you're left living on your own, in your parents house, with an unlimited amount of alcohol and the foreboding loneliness that settles in once they've left. Some people in a similar situation would immediately take the opportunity to invite crowds of pubescent youths into their home to consume said alcohol, harass the neighbours with blaring music and wake up the next morning with a vomit stained house, reeking of sweat, booze and other bodily fluids. Others would go quite the opposite way and cherish the silence by snuggling in front of the television with a box of Quality Streets, a slushy film and their beloved boyfriend/girlfriend/dog/cat/bottle of vino. I, on the other hand have recreated the scene from Bridget Jones. You know the one - Bridget is getting horrendously drunk, chain-smoking in the house and playing air guitar to *that* Celine Dion song. She's crying at the thought of her lonely, 30-something, single life, constantly starting a new diet, always telling herself to behave better and find a nice, responsible man instead of that fuckwit Daniel Cleaver.  I can relate to that. Minus ten years off the age, the indoor chain-smoking and Celine Dion and replace the wine with spirits and everything else is pretty much the same.
Ok, so the Bridget analogy is a little over-done. We all have our Daniel Cleavers and our Mark Darcys. And let's face it, every woman (and probably some men, although they may not admit it) at one point in their life believe that Bridget Jones' Diary was written about them. But the question is, why do people have those 'Bridget' moments? Why are some people destined to turn into a self-deprecating mess once the curtains are drawn and the bottle is opened? The stupid thing is, if Bridget wasn't doing her air-guitar act alone, if there was someone else in that room singing along with her and getting equally as miserably drunk, it would all seem fine. It would just be two pitiful people getting pissed and crying together. United in their pathetic lives. But because she's alone, the alcohol-fuelled sobbing seems even more pathetic. Verging on desperate, even. What I think I'm trying to say, is that more people are having 'Bridget' moments than we think. The woman you sit next to on the tube, the man walking his dog, the girl you talk to on Twitter - they're all having Bridget moments at some point. And they all feel like they're the only ones. But they're not.

Tomorrow's another day and another Bridget.