No, I’m not going to whine about being old (I am), or talk about the awesome new car I got (I didn’t), or how much I love my amazing children (I don’t). I am going to share a little personal fun with you though just because, well, I’m feeling generous (and I haven’t even started drinking yet!!). And, frankly, I’m a masochist.
See, I started drinking say, oh, about five or six years ago. Yep, not that long ago. And as many of you might recall, when you first start drinking, you don’t always know your limits. Suffice it to say, partying for the first time at 17 isn’t all that different from partying for the first time at 30. Well, except at 30 you don’t have to be worried about being fondled by weird-ass teenage boys. Wait…
ANYWAYS. So there I was. All dressed up and ready to go for a lovely St. Patty’s Day. I dress up every year. Yep, you heard me: every. fucking. year. Why? I don’t know. I guess I’m just into myself like that. If I’m going to celebrate ME you can be for damn sure I’m gonna go all the way!
Here’s a lovely picture of fabulously creative outfit that day:
So young, so naive…
Fast forward several hours. After a nice long bike ride to downtown Denver and back, we decided to join the neighbors for a little evening drinking. Then we went house hopping for a little while. Somehow I ended up around the block at some stranger’s house while my husband hung out with the neighbors. And without him around to keep my shit together, I started doing shots with the ladies.
Ahem, I had never done shots before….
And here’s the thing: my response to hard liquor is VERY different from my response to almost any other kind of alcohol. Wine, mixed drinks, hard cider…they all instigate a nice, slow burn that builds up over time. They are nice drinks, calm drinks, drinks a girl can love.
Hard liquor straight from the shot glass, however, has this way of caching itself in some tiny unknown pocket of my belly, building up while giving me the impression I am having absolutely NO reaction to the alcohol whatsoever. Did I mention I’d never done shots before? So I keep pounding shots and then, like Niagara fucking Falls, that massive pouch of alcohol decides to be a jerk and permeates my blood stream like ball cannon. And, in no time, I realize something vital:
I AM FUCKED.
Now I’ve never forgotten anything while drinking before. I remember that night, if a bit vaguely. There was some beer pong. Some dancing. I recall hearing my husband arrive on the scene while I was splayed out on the floor staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how to count to three (couldn’t do it).
Then I recall stumbling on his arm all the way home. How he managed to keep me upright is beyond me.
THIS, however, I do not remember:
Yep, that’s a picture of Jesus in the background. He was no doubt very disappointed in me that night. Don’t worry, he’s been thoroughly punished for being a judgmental dickhead (he’s in time out in the corner of the basement).
My husband is probably the one I should have punished – taking a picture of his drunk wife puking on her birthday?? Who does that?? (wait, who blogs about it? fuck…).
I suppose he’s been punished with four more years of marriage so he’s probably been through enough. As for me, I’ll be spending this evening doing lame married shit like watching House of Cards with a bucket of popcorn and a glass of Emergen-C. But hey, thanks to the asshole I married, I have this wonderful memory to look back on.
So…Happy birthday to me?