My friend Jocelyn likes to tell a story about me from when we were younger. It was college and there were more than a few stories but this is the one she likes to tell most often (exaggerations included.) WashU hosted a concert twice a year called WILD (Walk In, Lie [or is it lay] Down. They invited a big band to come play a show for the entire campus. Initially, students over 21 were allowed to bring in beer or kegs, but they ended that the semester before, instead allowing any student over 21 to bring in a six pack if they showed up before three (nobody ever did.) So me and her and some other friends hung out beforehand and readied ourselves for the night. Somehow I finished two bottles of wine in the span of an hour (a lot by my standards.) I got way too drunk, lost my wallet on the bus to school, snickered at Live’s lead singer, and apparently said some comment to an ex that made her storm off in a fit. Jocelyn took me home in a cab. She left a plastic bag beside me in bed in case I got a little too sick for my own good and then retired to my living room where she played Super Mario World on my Super Nintendo. She knew things weren’t right because once I started throwing up she didn’t hear the crinkle of the plastic bag. She found me bent over the ground holding my jeans up to my face. I threw the pants away the next day.
Now, that was about eight years ago. I can’t recall getting that sick since then. Frankly, I don’t think it’s possible. An example from Friday night: I poured one drink, a three shot tequila margarita (the ice was the only thing that made it tolerable), I took two hits from some pot that I purchased way back in March and had been sitting on a shelf ever since, then I zoned out watching Inception until an hour went by and the movie got too depressing and I passed out on my couch at midnight. One drink, two hits of pot, and a Saturday headache that took 12 hours to go away.
In between there’s been whiskey tastings that leave me hung over before the night is over, drunk texting after two beers, and incognito alcohol consumption during a screening of Lincoln. Anyone who’s eaten dinner with me knows I leave leftovers. Apparently drinks are not exempt.
Either I’m getting older (entirely probable), or I’ve lowered my standards for what constitutes being drunk, or maybe my body is trying to tell me something. My friend Kyle says he has the answer. Something about being a big pussy.
A fair chance indeed. Here’s to the moderates!
© 2013 Christopher Dart