Young adults are, for the most part, dumb when it comes to drinking at parties. Not light your truck on fire to see what happens stupid (which a fool neighbor of mine actually did), but idiotic in more of an alcohol makes me dance like a Russian ballerina on speed kind of way.
I was never a crazy, gin-fueled asshole, but I certainly went to my share of parties where alcohol may have been consumed. I’m honest enough to admit that I was rarely the designated driver at these events (we had one, but it wasn’t me), but I also didn’t make it to the point where I was dancing on the table topless with a lampshade on my head, skirting alcohol poisoning.
And don’t even get me started about that time one of our friends threw up on the dog. Not my monkey, not my circus, and most importantly, not my dog.
Despite this, and in defian
ce of all logic, I managed to spend many blissful years protected from the otherwise punishing side of a night of drinking. It took an astounding amount of booze to cause me to feel bad the next day. Or maybe that was the ‘Moons over My-hammy’ that Denny’s offered at 2am. Another of life’s great mysteries.
I was happy. It was fun. And then it ended.
My liver would was unhappy with me, and bluntly let me know our relationship of mutual understanding was coming to a bitter, tragic end. It would no longer tolerate any consumption of alcohol, despite the fact that I’d kindly refrained from binge drinking over the years, and had been otherwise kinder to it than most.
From that point forward, anything more than one very tame drink every few months was considered by my body to be unacceptable, and two hours following my hubris you would see me hanging over the toilet like a drowning person on a life-ring. I’ve heard of some people describe drinking as “borrowing happiness from tomorrow”. It’s an apt description, and let me assure you that sometimes the interest on that borrowing can be steep.
My days of a happy liquor-induced buzz seemed to be effectively over. I was the new DD for every party, and every party was a study in how being the one sober person at a party full of drunk 23 year olds isn’t as much fun as it sounds. (First world problems; I’m aware)
This embargo on drinking lasted for years. And years. And then a few more years after that. And then, 2 years ago, we moved to a small town.
Maybe the fresh mountain air was what my body needed, or maybe my liver finally decided that I’d learned my lesson. At any rate, along with my arrival in this small town my liver and I arrived at a tacit understanding that I had enough to deal with adjusting to a new life in a new place, so at the very least I should be allowed a couple of drinks without immediate consequence.
And it worked for a while. Suddenly I could have a few social drinks and not suffer that immediate porcelain indignity. So with a divine lack of common sense, I took this to mean go for it.
Foreshadowing: it did not mean go for it.
It turns out there’s still a limit and I’ve spent many a night remembering what the bathroom looks like from the perspective of the floor.
Which brings us to The Party. I was out with a friend at a local event that saw a bunch of women out on the town without their kids. This was a rare event, and you could tell. Suffice to say that our waiter had taken it upon himself to make sure the drinks never stopped flowing, and they never did.
I had been smart (hindsight: hahahahaha) and brought a gatorade with me to drink as I went.
Unfortunately, one sports drink couldn’t hold up against the onslaught, and I was rightly hammered. For the first time in my life, there are parts of that night that are a mystery to me.
|My best and only not just black attempt to send|
Husband a picture
I do vaguely remember re-naming water bitch water because I resented its attempts to kill the buzz…not that the bitch water (or really anything at that point) could have saved me. I also sent some pretty amazing texts to Husband….if anyone can tell me what “may be sipsuf shig face” or “son or and eto walk npw” means, I would appreciate it. I’m also told I spent a lot of time stroking my friend’s hair, telling them how pretty it was. Could have been worse.
I also spent a lot of time trying to send pictures to Husband to let him know how our night was going. As with most drunken photos, they weren’t good, and were pretty much just dark pictures of the table. And buns. We took a surprising number bread basket selfies.
|Husband's response to my texts|
At the end (middle) of the night, our group poured into a taxi and started home. The rest of the girls got dropped off at the pub, but I stayed in the taxi and valiantly tried to make small talk with the incredibly tolerant cab driver.
By what can only be considered a miracle, I gave the driver directions to my house (which most sober people can’t find on their first try), and stumbled in the door. Husband listened to me ramble about the night for a bit, and then tucked me in to bed with water and an advil, because he is awesome. I’m pretty sure I got some sleep, despite the calls of the porcelain’s siren song.
And, as you would expect, the next day was punishing in a way I have rarely experienced, and hope never to experience again. The girls and I had a fun night (or so I’ve been told), however it would have been nice to avoid writing off the entire next day.
So the take home message of this cautionary tale is that drinking and I have had a hit and miss relationship over the years, apparently I have learned roughly nothing from past experiences, and finally you should always drink your bitch water, even if it’s boring. It’s worth it. I promise.