Drunk
Here's how wine works for me:
1 glass of wine: Maybe some excessive smiling, but for the most part I'm good.
2 glasses of wine: Inarguably tipsy, but still coherent and functional.
3 glasses of wine: Happy drunk.
3.5 glasses of wine: Happy but verging on nauseous drunk.
4 glasses of wine: Nauseous drunk.
5 glasses of wine: Went too far.
I went just a little bit too far last night. We were testing out Chuck and Caroline's new gaming table, with its fancy blue felt and built-in drink holders. Caroline had picked up Eli's BBQ for dinner, and I had two hot dogs that were covered in bbq sauce, "pork crispers," and coleslaw—coleslaw that wasn't supposed to be on the hot dogs but that I, surprisingly, was actually fine with. (I maybe even enjoyed it. What a world!)
Chuck and Caroline's apartment has evolved into the quintessential hipster city loft—exposed brick, hanging Edison bulbs, turntable & records, trendy art prints, framed picture of moss on the wall. There's even white twinkle lights hanging from the wooden beams. It's quite lovely. They also have an excellent wine collection. So by the time we'd finished our first game I was already 2.5 glasses in.
By the 4th glass, Amanda was calling me an Irish drunk because I had hiccups (it was from the laughter, not the drinking, just so you know), but I was still feeling pretty good. And I was still operational enough to drink water upside down and eliminate said hiccups, though I'm not sure everyone else understood why I was hanging upside down from the chair.
And here's the problem, because normally I would have stopped before the 4th glass, and I would have walked home somewhat dizzy, passed out, and been fine the next morning. But we were laughing, there were Girl Scout cookies, I was with Amanda and Caroline...so I had one more glass.
I felt pretty good, if wobbly, until Michael and I started walking towards his office to pick up his computer on the way home. You know that feeling when you've had too much to drink and everything just seems like it's moving independently? Like the street lamps, the lines on the road, the buildings, the bike stands, the construction cones—they're all floating on their own set paths through space. And I'm just walking down the road, concentrating on my feet, focusing all my attention on putting one foot in front of another and keeping my stomach settled while I avoid the floating street elements.
I sound like a drunk, don't I? I guess I was. Don't judge me. I only do it with Amanda and Caroline. I have to make up for all the drinking I didn't do in college.
The closer we get to Michael's office the more worried I am about having to climb all 7 flights of stairs. I don't want to admit I'm too drunk to do it. Nobody can tell me I can't do something. Step off, bitches.
Except I didn't want to do it. Luckily it wasn't an issue because Michael walked straight past the stairs and to the elevator.
"I'm not going to make you climb the stairs," he said, swiping his key thing. He's a good husband. But I could have done it if I wanted to.
We get upstairs in what felt like 2 seconds flat.
"That's a lot faster," I say, lurching out of the elevator.
Michael looks at me a little sideways.
I sit in one of the rolly office chairs as he gets his stuff together, putting my feet up on the table and closing my eyes.
Bad idea. Everything is moving behind my eyelids. I open them—still not a good idea. There are too many colors. I close them again.
As I'm sitting there, I can feel myself sliding down in the chair, and I foresee a problem. There's no graceful way to get out of this position, where your butt has slid to the edge of the chair and your feet are up on the table in front of you. Even if I weren't drunk I couldn't pull it off without looking like a goober.
I decide to just worry about it later and shut my eyes. My butt continues to slide.
"Okay, ready to go," Michael says maybe two minutes later.
I swing my feet down, and the chair shoots out from behind me, rolling across the wooden floor. I'm on my butt on the ground.
Like the pro I am, I jump up. "I'm good, I'm good."
"Haley, Haley," Michael says. I'm not sure how to interpret the tone of his voice. I'm not sure I've heard him speak to me this way before, like he's reprimanding an 8 year old for getting bad grades. I feel I've let him down.
"I'm good! I'm good," I say with renewed enthusiasm. We walk back to the elevator, out of the building, down Central, and I'm proud of my comportment, of my ability to respond logically to the few questions Michael asks as we walk. It's like I'm not even drunk. He's probably forgotten.
We get to the apartment and he turns to me right inside the door, taking my bag off my shoulder. Before I know it he's carried me to the bed and Clyde is sitting on my stomach.
"Go to sleep, drunkard."
It was a grand night. And now it's almost 24 hours later and I've spent the entire day nauseous and hungover, something that very rarely happens to me cause usually I don't even have to drink much to get drunk.
I am living the life. But listen—next time I'm stopping at 3. Maybe 3.5.
1 glass of wine: Maybe some excessive smiling, but for the most part I'm good.
2 glasses of wine: Inarguably tipsy, but still coherent and functional.
3 glasses of wine: Happy drunk.
3.5 glasses of wine: Happy but verging on nauseous drunk.
4 glasses of wine: Nauseous drunk.
5 glasses of wine: Went too far.
I went just a little bit too far last night. We were testing out Chuck and Caroline's new gaming table, with its fancy blue felt and built-in drink holders. Caroline had picked up Eli's BBQ for dinner, and I had two hot dogs that were covered in bbq sauce, "pork crispers," and coleslaw—coleslaw that wasn't supposed to be on the hot dogs but that I, surprisingly, was actually fine with. (I maybe even enjoyed it. What a world!)
Chuck and Caroline's apartment has evolved into the quintessential hipster city loft—exposed brick, hanging Edison bulbs, turntable & records, trendy art prints, framed picture of moss on the wall. There's even white twinkle lights hanging from the wooden beams. It's quite lovely. They also have an excellent wine collection. So by the time we'd finished our first game I was already 2.5 glasses in.
By the 4th glass, Amanda was calling me an Irish drunk because I had hiccups (it was from the laughter, not the drinking, just so you know), but I was still feeling pretty good. And I was still operational enough to drink water upside down and eliminate said hiccups, though I'm not sure everyone else understood why I was hanging upside down from the chair.
And here's the problem, because normally I would have stopped before the 4th glass, and I would have walked home somewhat dizzy, passed out, and been fine the next morning. But we were laughing, there were Girl Scout cookies, I was with Amanda and Caroline...so I had one more glass.
I felt pretty good, if wobbly, until Michael and I started walking towards his office to pick up his computer on the way home. You know that feeling when you've had too much to drink and everything just seems like it's moving independently? Like the street lamps, the lines on the road, the buildings, the bike stands, the construction cones—they're all floating on their own set paths through space. And I'm just walking down the road, concentrating on my feet, focusing all my attention on putting one foot in front of another and keeping my stomach settled while I avoid the floating street elements.
I sound like a drunk, don't I? I guess I was. Don't judge me. I only do it with Amanda and Caroline. I have to make up for all the drinking I didn't do in college.
The closer we get to Michael's office the more worried I am about having to climb all 7 flights of stairs. I don't want to admit I'm too drunk to do it. Nobody can tell me I can't do something. Step off, bitches.
Except I didn't want to do it. Luckily it wasn't an issue because Michael walked straight past the stairs and to the elevator.
"I'm not going to make you climb the stairs," he said, swiping his key thing. He's a good husband. But I could have done it if I wanted to.
We get upstairs in what felt like 2 seconds flat.
"That's a lot faster," I say, lurching out of the elevator.
Michael looks at me a little sideways.
I sit in one of the rolly office chairs as he gets his stuff together, putting my feet up on the table and closing my eyes.
Bad idea. Everything is moving behind my eyelids. I open them—still not a good idea. There are too many colors. I close them again.
As I'm sitting there, I can feel myself sliding down in the chair, and I foresee a problem. There's no graceful way to get out of this position, where your butt has slid to the edge of the chair and your feet are up on the table in front of you. Even if I weren't drunk I couldn't pull it off without looking like a goober.
I decide to just worry about it later and shut my eyes. My butt continues to slide.
"Okay, ready to go," Michael says maybe two minutes later.
I swing my feet down, and the chair shoots out from behind me, rolling across the wooden floor. I'm on my butt on the ground.
Like the pro I am, I jump up. "I'm good, I'm good."
"Haley, Haley," Michael says. I'm not sure how to interpret the tone of his voice. I'm not sure I've heard him speak to me this way before, like he's reprimanding an 8 year old for getting bad grades. I feel I've let him down.
"I'm good! I'm good," I say with renewed enthusiasm. We walk back to the elevator, out of the building, down Central, and I'm proud of my comportment, of my ability to respond logically to the few questions Michael asks as we walk. It's like I'm not even drunk. He's probably forgotten.
We get to the apartment and he turns to me right inside the door, taking my bag off my shoulder. Before I know it he's carried me to the bed and Clyde is sitting on my stomach.
"Go to sleep, drunkard."
It was a grand night. And now it's almost 24 hours later and I've spent the entire day nauseous and hungover, something that very rarely happens to me cause usually I don't even have to drink much to get drunk.
I am living the life. But listen—next time I'm stopping at 3. Maybe 3.5.