I’ve been reading about SXSW over at Dooce for the past few days, and I had a startling realization last night. It hit me while I was checking out at the Flash Foods, with my can of Pringles, coke, piece of chocolate cake and 2 York Patties. This came on the heels of a very contemplative day spent soul searching about why I’m not a Drinker anymore, and what being on the wagon has done to my social life.
The thing is, drinking makes me sick, and not in a dainty “oops I’m tipsy, why is the room spinning? I’d better have some water!” kind of way. I get sick in that “ohgodohgodohgodohgod I am dying, check my blood sugar, am I dying? Please let me puke! Oh god I have to stop puking. Get me some food. Oh god the smell of that food is making me puke” kind of way. I’ve tried all sorts of ways out of the puke-fest that inevitably follows a night of great drink and exciting talk, but nothing seems to work except just not doing it. Well, that’s not totally true-if I have 2 aspirin and a glass of water before I start drinking red wine, I avoid the immediate headache which allows me to drink way more than I would normally, and thus postpone the vomit until 4 in the morning, or if I’m very lucky to pass out early, 8 in the morning. I was never an everyday drinker, probably because somehow inside I knew that being a bona-fide alkie would cause me to vomit the lining of my esophagus and then I’d die, or something. I was that fun alcoholic who drank once a week and then once every two weeks and then once every few months and then a couple of times a year and now really not ever, especially after that last bout, in Asheville, where I discussed the sexual prowess of an ex-boyfriend with some guys who went to high school with him (what a coincidence! Does that make me cool? Does that make us more bonded now?), right in front of my husband and my husband’s brother, who is a MINISTER. And when we got back to our hotel room and started getting frisky, I added my special flavor to the moment by puking.
The thing is, I’m funnier when I’ve been drinking (at least pre-vomit…)! And more adventurous! And less awkward! When I have to do something scary, for instance go to a party preceding my sister in law’s wedding, where all the guests are a) younger b) prettier c) more exciting than I am, I set out to have a few drinks and instantly I feel cool again. There’s a reason alcohol is called a Social Lubricant.
(I am aware of the illusion, Internet. But isn’t our own perception of ourselves the only one that matters, anyway?)
Seeing all of these pictures of Heather Armstrong possibly drunk and dancing adorably sent me in a kind of a funk yesterday. “I miss that!” I lamented. “Why don’t we ever go anyplace that plays 80’s music anymore!”, I pouted. “Why can’t I have a cute vise that makes everyone chuckle?’
While I do enjoy the lack of inhibitions and the sparkling conversations and the great pictures that come from a night of good drink and great music, I just came to a place where the hangover wasn’t worth it anymore. Being sick sucks.
And so last night M and I got into an argument about the laundry. I won’t give the details here because they are very boring. Just insert your favorite laundry argument here; I’m sure you have one. I needed to blow off some steam! That’s how I found myself in the checkout line of the jiffy mart with an armful of junk food, thinking to myself “oh! But I DO have a vice! I’m not a binge drinker anymore, I’m a binge eater now! Yum!”
The thing is. Binge eating isn’t cute! Or funny! And no one takes adorable pictures of you when you’re lobbed up in bed with a 44 oz coke and a can of Pringles, candy wrappers and cookie crumbs strewn about, a visible indictment of your sagging will power. And the hangover? Lasts about 10 years, or forever, and it’s called cellulite.
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