Last Saturday night I let my hair down.
I mean this metaphorically and literally. I did actually wear my hair down, my curls were crazy, all over the place, standing up, sticking out, springing forward. I wore my favorite green sweater, and my favorite jeans, and I looked good, and I looked cute, and I was looking forward to seeing one of my favorite local bands.
So I had two drinks (rum and coke is my drink of choice, because I am, at heart, a nineteen year old sorority girl) before The Boy picked me up. I was dancing to Ginuwine (I’m not proud, y’all) when he arrived. I hadn’t eaten, and I suddenly realized that the drinks had been stronger than I’d anticipated.
“I might be a little drunk, young sir,” I said, my voice high-pitched. A dead giveaway that I was on my way to Crazydrunktown, population: me.
“You decided to get started early?” The Boy asked wearily, sitting at the dining room table and accepting the beer I handed him. He’d put in a full day at work, hadn’t been to his apartment in over 24 hours, and was acting as my chauffeur for the evening. He has his moments.
“I didn’t want to spend a ton of money on alcohol tonight,” I explained, and sashayed over to the stereo to change the song. (This statement is all kinds of hilarious, because I ended up dropping over $100 on dinner for the two of us about two hours later.)
We headed out. I had two martinis at dinner, and then a beer outside of his best friend’s apartment. By 10 o’clock, when we headed to the club to see the band play, I was pretty much drunk. The Boy and his friend Quippy stopped at a liquor store to buy a bottle of whiskey, but they wouldn’t let me come in (my behavior was a bit…flamboyant). As soon as they were out of the car, I began to drunk-dial and text various people. When they came back, brown paper bag in hand, I was giggling on the phone to T. and her friends, talking about The Boy and why my feelings for him were not “the drink talking”.
At the club, The Boy bought me a rum and Coke. I downed it. He bought me another, and I downed that, too. I was kind of pissed at Quippy, and we were sniping at each other. The Boy was upset that we weren’t getting along, and he chastised me. At this point, I was flat-out tanked.
The band we had come to see took the stage. I danced my little tush off. I was soaked with sweat by the time their set was over, and I was feeling exhilarated. I was so drunk that I had pretty much lost all inhibitions, because my behavior kept getting worse.
We stood outside the club, smoking borrowed cigarettes from one of The Boy’s friends. This friend, whom we’ll refer to as Abe Lincoln, was flirting mercilessly with me, and I was quite receptive to it, because when I drink I get flirtatious, and because part of me likes to see how The Boy reacts. It’s not a proud admission on my part.
Somehow, we ended up walking to Abe Lincoln’s apartment. The Boy and Quippy ditched out to grab the car and some burritos, and I made the rest of the trek with Abe Lincoln and some Random Dude. Random Dude passed out on the couch upon our arrival (not before asking me if there was any chance of us having sex. I told him he had a better chance of seeing God), and Abe Lincoln and I ended up in his room, on his couch.
I knew that he wanted something to happen between us, and a part of me kind of wanted something to happen too, but I was scared and shy and also kind of freaked out, so I grabbed a book off the shelf nearby and flipped through the pages. Abe Lincoln got closer and closer to me on the couch.
“Your hair smells good,” he said into the side of my head.
“Thank you. I bathe regularly,” I deadpanned, still flipping through Guns, Germs, and Steel. He was so close to me. I knew that if I turned my head, he’d kiss me. I started to turn my head.
My cell phone rang.
It was The Boy. He was outside. We got up to let him in. Abe Lincoln seemed disappointed. “Is he here to sweep you away?” he asked me as we walked to the back door.
I nodded. “I think that’s the general idea,” I said, feeling conflicted.
When I woke up the next morning, I had a hangover that could put all other hangovers to shame. I laid in bed, moaning softly. The Boy gave me a long back rub and took me out to breakfast (at 2 pm) at our favorite diner.
That night, on the phone, I said, “I’m not drinking again for a long time.”
“You were kind of out of control last night,” The Boy agreed, his voice careful.
His honesty stung. A part of me knew that he was right, but another part of me wanted to argue that he was one to talk. After all, it was only a month ago that he drank so much that he threw up in the car as it sped down the freeway, covering me in pizza and beer that had been partially digested. It had been him that had gotten so drunk one night that he told me he loved me and had then passed out. The next morning, he had no memory of saying such a thing and told me that he’d been lying.
Even so. It’ll be a good long while before I drink again. Probably when the Zombie Pub Crawl comes around, I’ll be singing a different tune.
