Have you ever been so hungover that you started drafting a final will & testament? That's where I was during the ten-hour drive home yesterday. Now I'm sitting here Monday afternoon, 39 hours after my last drink, and I'm still not convinced that I'm going to pull through. We're not out of the woods just yet.
I've never been the best decision maker while drinking (although that implies that I'm actually making my own decisions, when in reality the ol' booze brain just says YES to everyone and everything) but even by my standards, this last weekend was bad. Here are the worst drinking decisions I made during the wedding weekend festivities, counting down from 4 to 1:
4.) Deciding to go to an after-party at Ike's parents' house on Thursday after the bar, when we knew we were golfing the next morning. LZE tried to save us from ourselves when we were leaving Southgate, and she fought in vain to just get us to go home, pleading with us that 2am was late enough. She got outvoted (by about 10-1) and as I was standing over my ball on the first tee the next morning, wondering which one in my vision I should swing at, all I could think about was how badly I wished we had listened to her.
3.) Any time I had a white russian in my hand. If you ever see me drinking the Lebowski Special, that means that at the very least, my axles are rattling. I may not be B'd out yet, but I'm on my way.
2.) I had a couple of cases of beer in my trunk, leftover from Thursday night (Ike made me take them with me, since if we left them at his parents' house he was worried they'd get stolen by his parents....didn't it used to be the other way around?) While golfing on Friday morning, I starting drinking them instead of buying cold beer at the course like everybody else. Pretty soon, we're on the back 9 and I'm chugging a warm beer on every hole and yelling "Trunk beeeeeeeeeeer!" every time I crack one open. If that day would have been a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' book, every single time I chose the path of shotgunning a 12-pack of warm beer, the book would've ended with me throwing up in my parents' bathroom. Different decisions later on could've delayed it a couple chapters or so; but ultimately, it was inevitable.
1.) Pretty soon it's 2am (we're still on Friday here) and even after a 16-hour shift of boozing- I had at least 15 more drinks, on top of my 12-pack of trunk beer- as the bar closes and we're causing the usual downtown sidewalk shenanigans and waiting for cabs, T-Nels yells out "AFTER PARTY" and sure enough I find myself nodding yes and thinking this is a good idea. At least I didn't try to roller blade home or anything (cough, Noles, cough).
Someday, some effing day, I'll be able to be a think-for-myselfer and not give in to the peer pressure. But for now, a couple months shy of turning 30, that day has not yet arrived.
