This afternoon I was discussing with a co-worker the subject of partying and the “club scene”.  He’s around my age, and we discussed our “cut-off” points…that is, when did we realize we were too old to be doing this s**t.

For me, it was when I was 21, and started getting hangovers.  I still drank, but nowhere NEAR what I did when I was younger.  I was never one to black out from drinking (thank you God), but I still have my own memorable drunk stories.  For example:

  • I tied my best friend’s socks together while they were still on his feet. 
  • I partook in daiquiris made with cherry Kool-aid because we ran out of daiquiri mix.
  • I won a chugging contest against my then-boyfriend and another guy
  • I figured out that Zingers (the Dolly Madison snack treat) fit conveniently into condoms, and the condoms fit over doorknobs.  My ex-boyfriend’s doorknob worked especially well in this case.
  • I got drunk, then made the mistake of drinking Diet Coke, which only made me a wide-awake drunk, and wound up vacuuming my dorm room at 2 AM.
  • I tee-peed a guy’s house because he wasn’t home and wouldn’t come over and drink with a group of friends and myself.
  • I drank a liter of margaritas by myself but I was seated, and I didn’t feel the full effects until I got up to walk out to the parking lot.  I had to be carried.  ‘Nuff said.

My drunk stories are relatively tame, I know…I didn’t engage in anonymous sex, or drive on the wrong side of the road, or throw up on important dignitaries.  I didn’t write a tell-all book about my escapades, and I’m fortunate that I didn’t fall into the depths of alcoholism, as it runs in my family on my mother’s side (she had a couple of alcoholic uncles). 

But at some point, I just said, “This is stupid.” 

I did start getting hangovers when I reached the age of 21, as previously mentioned.  I remember one in particular where I had to ride all the way back to my hometown in a Toyota hatchback whilst hung over, and it was a particularly miserable experience.  I felt each bump in the road through the roof of my mouth all the way up to the top of my head, and it was unpleasant.  The hangovers didn’t stop me, but they did slow me down.

My coup de grace (pardon the spelling) was the night before I married my first husband.  My bridesmaids took me out and got me drunk, God bless ’em.  I did proclaim that my chest was bigger than the other woman who was getting married the same day I was, and I drew the county attorney’s attention to myself, so much so that he came over and asked me if I was planning on driving, and I replied with a sing-song “NO-OH”.  Oddly enough, I didn’t have a hangover the next morning, and by all rights I should have.  However, my antics made their way around the grapevine and I’m sure people thought I was a drunken, colossal ass.  And they would have been right.

I grew out of it, for lack of a better explanation. 

Now, working with many young guys, I hear stories of what they did over the weekend, and my head throbs in sympathy with theirs, but I’m not dumb enough to do it over again. 

Besides, booze is too expensive these days.

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