Mimosas Ruin Everything

Birthdays are meant to be celebrated after noon—when the odds of cake and cocktails outweigh the chance of having to pretend I enjoy kale. Yet somehow, here I was at 10 a.m. on a Saturday, sitting in a crowded brunch spot in Soho, where Tessa had dragged the entire gang to celebrate her coworker Amber’s birthday. Because this is what we do now.

Me: “I don’t even know Amber.”
Tessa: “She’s really sweet! Plus, free mimosas and we’ll be in and out before noon.”
Me: “Does anyone else feel like breakfast drinking is just an excuse to not admit we have a problem?”
Mark: “Why are we pretending anyone’s here for the breakfast part?”

To my right, Chaz is already on his third mimosa, throwing out motivational advice like confetti. Sophie’s politely sipping her drink, looking as though she’s mentally calculating the environmental cost of the single-use straws.

Chaz: “Guys, mimosas are just sunshine in a glass! We should do this every weekend!”
Sophie: “I’d probably be in a coma from the sugar crash.”

It’s 11 a.m., and Amber—who I’ve now identified as someone whose laugh could shatter glass—has announced a game where we each go around the table and say one thing we “love” about her. Did I mention I don’t know this woman? The closest connection I have to her is that we both drink coffee, I assume.

Tessa: “Come on, it’s just one thing. Be creative!”
Me: “She… knows how to throw a great brunch?”

Amber squeals, and I wonder if this is how I die—at the hands of overenthusiastic birthday girls and bottomless mimosas.

Fast-forward to 2 p.m. The brunch crowd has thinned, but we’re still here. Why? Well, after Amber’s 12th “One more round!” and a champagne-fueled discussion about horoscopes (spoiler: I’m a Sagittarius and Amber hates Sagittarius men), we’re trapped.

Tessa’s phone pings.

Tessa: “Oh no…she just extended the reservation until dinner.”
Me: “Dinner? We started with eggs, Tessa. Eggs. This is brunch purgatory.”

At this point, Mark is three coffees deep and looks like he’s aged five years since 9 a.m. He keeps glancing at the door, probably weighing whether he could make a run for it without knocking over Amber’s birthday balloons.

7 p.m.

We are still at the table. I have not left the same chair for 9 hours. There’s been cake, there’s been prosecco, and now there’s talk of a “quick” karaoke trip. My will to live is fading faster than Chaz’s ability to text without typos. He’s sending videos of us to his Instagram followers like we’re a traveling circus troupe.

Chaz: “Guys, you’re all crushing it today! This vibe is fire”
Me: “It’s been 10 hours of the same vibe. The vibe is exhaustion.”

Sophie has started making small talk with a waiter just to see if she can bribe her way out of this hell. Tessa, ever the optimist, is still in full party mode, giving Amber another “birthday speech” that no one asked for.

Tessa: “I’m just so grateful to have met someone as amazing as Amber!”
Mark: under his breath “Is this Stockholm Syndrome?”

It’s now 8:30 p.m., and we’re still trapped. Karaoke never happened because Amber suddenly had the idea to go to a wine bar instead. Of course, the wine bar is packed, and we’re standing in the corner like sad, abandoned luggage. Amber is talking to some random guy who, judging by his vest, works in finance and probably has opinions on crypto.

Mark leans over: “If we leave now, do you think they’ll notice?”
Me: “Mark, I think Amber would chase us down the street with a cake knife. We’re in too deep.”

The wine keeps flowing, and Tessa’s enthusiasm hasn’t waned. Meanwhile, Sophie is doing the slow head tilt of someone who is entirely done with this day. She pulls out her phone.

Sophie: “Uber’s 12 minutes away. We make a run for it in 10?”
Me: “Deal.”

Just when we think we’ve found our out, Amber approaches. She hands us each another glass of wine and says, “You guys have to meet my friends! We’re going to an after-party!”

After. Party.

Chaz, somehow still in high spirits: “This day just keeps getting better!”

Me: “It really doesn’t.”

Always RSVP with a “maybe” to anything involving brunch, birthday girls, or anyone named Amber. It’s not a celebration; it’s an all-day hostage situation with unlimited mimosas and no escape.

As we finally made our exit (11 p.m., for the record), Tessa turns to me and says:
Tessa: “Wasn’t that fun?”
Me: “If by fun, you mean a slow, mimosa-fueled descent into madness, then yes. It was a blast.”