The Glory and Anguish of Alcohol
It's well known in our family that, although we are both Polish people and rednecks, we don't handle our liquor well. This point was driven home to me at a young age by watching my dad drink himself sick on whiskey, and it was made even clearer to me as I entered college and began drinking myself sick on occasion. It's rare, I have to admit, for me to get hangovers, but on Sunday I had a roaring one, and it's caused me to think perhaps I should abstain from now on.
My usual alcohol intake is one beer per week. On Thursday nights, the boy and I (lately accompanied by Charlie, because he lives close by and enjoys beer as well) head down to the local bar where I order precisely one Leinenkugel, sip it over the course of the hour, and talk nonsense with the bartender, an acquaintance of mine from my poor misspent college years. Then I go home and fall asleep like an old lady.
However, on Saturday night I had a grander adventure. My friend Todd recently announced that he's packing up and heading for Vegas in a few months, which caused me to think we should really hang out more, because he's fairly fascinating and I'll miss him when he's gone. So, out to the bar we go. Todd is basically the best drinking buddy you can get. He's witty, he's ridiculous, he buys his share of rounds, and he still makes sure you get safely into a cab at the end of the night. So we sit and bullshit and figure out how to make the world a better place, me not really grasping the fact that the beers I'm drinking are twice the size of your typical bottle and are also some kind of fancy super-alcoholic beer. All I know is, they taste good and I'm having fun. It's only when I stand up to go to the bathroom that I realize I'm pretty tipsy. And by the time I fall into my cab, I'm drunk. I barely stay awake as the cabby speeds up Clark and it takes me a long time to count out the fare. He's laughing at me, and I'm laughing at myself, and no one really cares.
After conquering the stairs and the locks that stand between me and my apartment, I down a bottle of water and curl up on the couch. I always feel a little bad stumbling drunk and smokey into bed next to an innocently slumbering boy. Upon laying down, I realize I've got the spins, which hasn't happened since I was 18. I can't sleep. I can't sit up. The awful is beginning already.
By the next morning, my stomach is attacking me from the inside, complaining of all the poison I dumped into it last night, and my brain is feeling shrively inside my skull. For the rest of the day, I only move off the couch to puke. Mike is helpful, of course, brings me water and all, which only makes me feel worse. It's a sad state of affairs for a grown woman.
This has happened before, and each time I tell myself that I Will Not Drink More Than Two Drinks In A Night. This promise is very easy to keep for as long as the memory of the taste of vomit stays in my mouth. After that, it's all over.
My usual alcohol intake is one beer per week. On Thursday nights, the boy and I (lately accompanied by Charlie, because he lives close by and enjoys beer as well) head down to the local bar where I order precisely one Leinenkugel, sip it over the course of the hour, and talk nonsense with the bartender, an acquaintance of mine from my poor misspent college years. Then I go home and fall asleep like an old lady.
However, on Saturday night I had a grander adventure. My friend Todd recently announced that he's packing up and heading for Vegas in a few months, which caused me to think we should really hang out more, because he's fairly fascinating and I'll miss him when he's gone. So, out to the bar we go. Todd is basically the best drinking buddy you can get. He's witty, he's ridiculous, he buys his share of rounds, and he still makes sure you get safely into a cab at the end of the night. So we sit and bullshit and figure out how to make the world a better place, me not really grasping the fact that the beers I'm drinking are twice the size of your typical bottle and are also some kind of fancy super-alcoholic beer. All I know is, they taste good and I'm having fun. It's only when I stand up to go to the bathroom that I realize I'm pretty tipsy. And by the time I fall into my cab, I'm drunk. I barely stay awake as the cabby speeds up Clark and it takes me a long time to count out the fare. He's laughing at me, and I'm laughing at myself, and no one really cares.
After conquering the stairs and the locks that stand between me and my apartment, I down a bottle of water and curl up on the couch. I always feel a little bad stumbling drunk and smokey into bed next to an innocently slumbering boy. Upon laying down, I realize I've got the spins, which hasn't happened since I was 18. I can't sleep. I can't sit up. The awful is beginning already.
By the next morning, my stomach is attacking me from the inside, complaining of all the poison I dumped into it last night, and my brain is feeling shrively inside my skull. For the rest of the day, I only move off the couch to puke. Mike is helpful, of course, brings me water and all, which only makes me feel worse. It's a sad state of affairs for a grown woman.
This has happened before, and each time I tell myself that I Will Not Drink More Than Two Drinks In A Night. This promise is very easy to keep for as long as the memory of the taste of vomit stays in my mouth. After that, it's all over.
