Drinking disasters

College is the only time in a young person's life where it is socially acceptable to party until 4 in the morning and walk around the entire next day in pajamas. Oh, how I miss those days. The hangovers were a tad less life threatening, there were zero social obligations and responsibilities that I had to attend to and to top it all, my dad was footing the bill. Don't get me wrong, I am one of those spoiled kids who had their college paid for, but I wasn't on the 7 year bachelor's degree plan and I held down a steady job at Arby's (for six months at least).

Nowadays, I'm an average working Jane. About every 6 months, however, I feel the need to remind myself that I am not the drinking champion I once used to be. Case in point: When my husband and I moved to San Diego we did not know a single soul. So what do people normally acclimate to when feeling out of place? You're right, mass amounts of drinking. One Saturday afternoon, we decide to venture out into the public. We end up at a hooka bar in a beach community called Pacific Beach. Let's just say that this town is like a bad 80's hangover complete with leather faced men and women, which of course there's nothing wrong with. A "hooka" bar is where people can smoke nicotine free flavored tobacco out of a device that looks like drug paraphernalia. Okay, whatever, I'll try anything. Four 16 ounce Miller Lites and two Hooka bowls later I'm feeling pretty damn good. I think I'm more attractive as well and therefore, I'm feeling more confident. I begin to dazzle people with my extraordinary wit and humor. My husband and I are walking with more vim and pride. Onto the next bar! We're all smiles and laughter. It doesn't matter that I haven't eaten anything or that I ran 9 miles before I embarked on my journey.

So now we're at a sports bar complete with about 127 plasma t.v.'s and plenty of college football. I think it's a good idea to order more Miller Lites and some nachos. The only problem is that I can't seem to insert the delicious melted cheese and toasted corn chips into my mouth. Oh no, I would rather drink the piss colored concoction. I feel like Homer Simpson at this point and I probably started to resemble him as well. Pretty soon, the beer no longer tastes like beer but water! "Oh, shit" I think to myself in a half conscious fashion. I know now that I have reached the point of no return. Once alcohol begins to taste like the river of life, I am in the for the long haul. I vaguely remember making friends with three Navy Seals and then making a complete ass hole out of myself.

Fast forward to the next memory I retained. I am walking on the sidewalk. Well, I really wouldn't consider it walking looking back. It was more of a death march. It was a struggle to put one foot in front of the other because by this time, all of my motor skills had become mush. But I do know that I thought it was a good idea to stop back at the hooka bar to grab some of delicious tasting tobacco. Well, I end up in the bathroom throwing up. I remember thinking to myself, "Okay Martha, you need to walk out of here and get to the car." That's as far as I got to walking out of there and getting to the car. I passed out in the girls bathroom and my husband had to come and pull me out and practically carry me to the car. Keep in mind that we are completely out of our element, having only lived in San Diego for a month or so. After we safely get to the car, I think I'm out of the woods. Oh, wait, maybe not. I proceed to throw up into my jacket I had brought in the instance I got a little chilly. And then I throw up out the window and all over my arm. Let's just say that I swore off drinking for about a week, which is a long time considering I've been drunk since I was born. This is one of the worst experiences (yes, there's more stories since living here) of my life.

The hangover the next day was not only physical, but emotional. Between dry heaving sessions and cold sweats, I could see my husband out of the corner of my swollen eye. Let's just say the look he gave me wasn't one of admiration and love. No, the look was rather disgust and sheer astonishment. And to think, at this point, we had only been married 2 months.

This is one of those stories that my husband gets embarrassed when I tell it. In fact, he is down right annoyed, but for some reason, I feel liberated when I admit to my public and private humiliation. And 2 years later, we are still happily married, or at least I am.