It used to be that I drank cocktails in parts: my stomach was the big mixer and my brain its favorite victim. Friday night’s party taught me the meaning of “used to be” to a great extent.
With but four beers in me, a sip of tequila sunrise threw my stomach into a revolution whose magnitude would remind the French of their storied past, much as their lame present would. Gastric fortitude is one thing, the integrity of my facilities was another. Driven home thanks to a kind, non-drinking guest at said party, I drifted from one state of consciousness to the next. Coupled with intermittent stops to help me dry heave, I must say that despite my smugness I will admit that I was a total embrassment last night.
At this point I really don’t care if none of the people I met last night would even want to see me ever again. Part of my me-centric style says that I regret not having had two glasses of water before I crawled into bed more than I do looking like a drunk in front of my hosts. I have spent the day with a splitting hangover headache, and a stomach resisting any input, including water.
Having slept for more than nine hours during most of Saturday — not including the night’s sleep — I’ve learned one life lesson quite well: I’m not as invincible as I thought.
Regular blogging will resume on Monday.