Despite all the joking I do on here about running on a constant IV drip of either coffee or wine, I really don’t drink all that much. I do love my wine and margaritas, that’s true, but it’s been a really long time since I’ve drank past the point of general giggly-ness. Why? Because I’m a grown up, and not the alcoholic kind.
Except this past weekend was my sister’s wedding… which means I spent about five days hanging out with all our college friends. Add in free baby sitting (yay grandparents!) and open bars and you’ve got the perfect storm for a bunch of (sort of) grown-ups thinking they should drink like their 19 again.
I should add in that the amount I could drink when I was 19 was vastly different than it is after two successive pregnancies shot my alcohol tolerance level straight to hell.
Moral of the story being when I drank what I thought would turn me into this…
it really turned me into this.
Yeah. It was not pretty.
When I drink to college levels I do two things. I turn into what our old roommate calls a “woo girl”… you know, the girl in the club with her friends who keeps throwing her arms in the air and screaming “WOOOOOOO!” every time anything happens… and I run around dropping truth bombs on everybody. Truth bombs that never should have been let out of the mental truth arsenal.
So after the fabulously gorgeous wedding (pictures coming soon) with my fabulously gorgeous sister and her lucky-as-hell husband and their awesome awesome reception there was an after party and this is approximately everything I remember from it.
I made a crazy kid with a fro tell me the long-version of the story behind each and every one of his tattoos.
I kept calling one of my sister’s brother’s by the wrong name, then yelling at him for trying to fuck with me when he told me he wasn’t who I thought he was.
I played a drinking game… by which I mean people around me played a drinking came and I occasionally threw my hands up in the air, screamed “WOOOOOOO!”, and grabbed a drink out of somebody elses hand and shot gunned it. (Why nobody was cutting me off by then I will never understand.)
And at the end of the night I dramatically said to the best man “I shouldn’t tell you this! I know I definitely should not be telling you this. But…” and then I don’t remember what I told him. I saw him at brunch the next morning and he didn’t seem too disgusted of pissed at me which either means that truth bomb was of the hilarious/flattering variety instead of the horribly offensive kind… or he was just being nice and not bringing whatever horrible thing I said up because he’s a nice guy and nice guys do things like that. I didn’t have the balls to ask. (But if anyone reading this was there and over heard the conversation please let me know.)
Either way I’m 99% sure whatever I said was the truth and 99% sure I never should have said it.
So now I’m back home… with a healthy amount of shame and indescribable embarrassment from that night and zero desire to drink more than two glasses of wine in any given evening. At least until a few years from now when someone else gets married all those kids are in the same room with me again… and we’ll all probably do exactly the same thing again even though we’ll all swear we won’t. Oh well.