Saturday night we went drinking in Nash Vegas - a strip of neon lights and bars and plaid and cowboy boots and drunk bridesmaids and bachelor parties and bad decisions here in Nashville. According to our observations, you can’t be male and drink in Nash Vegas unless you’re wearing plaid and you can’t be female unless you have short shorts and cowboy boots on. We did not get the memo. We were all fully clothed, bootless and hatless. I’ve not gone drinking since I was … um… since I was not in my forties. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had drinks in my forties and I’ve had way too much to drink in my forties but I’ve just not set out to drink in ages. It was not smart. I thought I was being smart. I ate before drinking. I only drank cider and I drank it slowly. I limited myself to one in each bar/restaurant/dive we went which meant I was at a total of four for the night. Which was not awful. I should have been fine. But our waitress in the first place we went to was fantastic. My awkward ordering um, “enthusiasm” that usually just tends to make the wait staff annoyed, amused her. She found all of us ladies entertaining. She didn’t snort with laughter when we asked her to join us. She did not give us a fake number when she told us to let her know where we went next. AND she actually showed up and was still highly entertained by us all. But then, she did a thing a person in their twenties does that a person in her forties should have refused: she bought a round of shots for the table. And I did a thing that a person in her forties who doesn’t drink much and had already had four ciders should not do. I drank that sucker. That shot killed me. To start off, it was Petron. Tequila and I have not been friends since before my legal drinking days when a group of us polished off a bottle and then added stupid on top of it. On the way home from that debacle, my poor friend had to keep pulling me up off the street by my belt loops. I woke up the next morning with shredded jeans and bruises all over my body from where it hit the ground each time a belt loop broke. Not awesome. I didn’t know the shot was tequila until it was half way down my throat. I know it’s a been a long while since I’ve been drinking but I do remember that spitting the shot out is an unacceptable response so down it went. And down it stayed – for a while. Conversations in bars are very different than conversations at parties. At parties, you can get deep and personal with life stories with one person in a corner and that informs the evening. Folks around you will either join in or choose to not step into the mire and muck and carry on elsewhere. In bars, it’s a free for all of muck followed by loud screaming and then into mire in just seconds. At one point, pre-Petron, we had an intense conversation with the best man of this guy - Best man was drinking Bud Lite, standing on the edge of the bachelor party cluster that raged on next to him. He caught me taking the picture of the groom’s shirt and joined our tiny huddle of reason in the very crowded plaid filled bar. Best Man/Bud Lite guy has been friends with the groom since kindergarten and had gone all out to show him a good time - renting a house in Nashville, dressing the groom in a candy bikini and generally partying hard for the weekend. And yet, Best Man/Bud Lite guy told us in a deep moment in the swirling chaos around us, that he was engaged and couldn’t wait to spend his life with his lady. Lovely moment followed by some gyrating by his friends and some overly served ladies.
See, bars mean I can have a conversation that doesn’t ever get finished with a new friend about being a dominatrix followed by a moment sandwiched in between two people in love terrified to make the next step. Both of them telling me their feelings as I ping-pong back in and forth, listening to their sweet nothings about each other in either ear. Both of them couching their trepidation of a commitment to each other with the distraction that was my girl friends and me and the absolute bedlam of the crazy mating dance in the bar. And then the Patron kicked in and now I had these shared feelings and deep moments with people happening in between giant waves of a roller coaster ride. My reaction time was in slow motion, tracers and Bionic Man sound effects and everything. My limbs were liquid at the joints and rubbery in between. My head became heavy and I had a hard time keeping it looking up and steady. This is the point in my twenties that I would have solved the unsteadiness with more booze. But in my forties, I’m smarter. Not smart enough to have not taken the shot but smart enough to text Husband for a ride and put down the drink and make my way to meet him. Not smart enough to drink loads of water when I got home but smart enough to make it to the bathroom each time my body decided it didn’t want the Petron in there anymore. Someone told me once that you never really grow-up. You just start to make better choices. And, they said, that every choice comes with the option to regret the decision or to learn and grow from the decision. I’m still feeling rough. I never want to see or smell tequila again but I don’t regret the night. Two days later, I don’t regret the choices I made or the stories I shared. Which is a very nice change than the shame and remorse I would feel in my twenties where everything I did or said was replayed in my head for months after the fact. No regrets at all. I made some fabulous and interesting new friends. I had some fantastic laughs. I have some fantastic stories that may one day be a blog post or a play or a smile when I’m eighty. If I ever make it to see eighty, that is. I’m pretty sure if I try to put Petron in me one more time, my stomach is just going to quit on me. Yup. No regrets. Now, please hide all liquor from me for the foreseeable future. We are currently not friends.
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AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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