Why I Do Not Drink Alcohol
When I met the Man he was a bit of an enthusiastic lush. Another term I’ve heard tossed about is “raging alcoholic” but we will discuss the exact extent of his alcohol imbibing in another post. This post is not about him. It is about me.
I have never enjoyed the taste of alcohol. I’ve always felt beer tasted like cat piss and wine tasted like the seepage trickling from the corner of a back alley dumpster. Or what I suspect those things would taste like. Despite my dislike, when I met the Man I made a concerted and valiant effort to acquire a taste for beer and liquor because I wanted him to LOVE ME FOREVER.
My logic used to be a bit… flawed.
As I was never much of a drinker, I just copied what he ordered.
The Man —being macho and alcoholic-y— was much less of a mai tai person and more of a robust spirits person, so I wound up downing such delights as 100 proof cinnamon schnapps and 151 nearly daily. Everyone knows this is a GRAND idea.
Well, that’s not true. Lots of people told me this, but I was trying to be LOVED.
Sometimes I think the Universe intervened as I am destined for significance beyond drinking myself to death, and sometimes I think it was just because I am a small Asian with a poor constitution. At any rate, after a couple of months I terrified the Man by doing awesome things such as:
After some time passed I, because I am very smart and logical and science-y, used the scientific method to determine the exact limitations of my alcohol consumption.
“The Incident” occurred on our fifth anniversary. In a celebratory surge of reckless abandon —as we had heroically conquered five years of marriage— the Man and I picked up a six-pack of apple beer (gluten-free!) and headed to our favorite restaurant. Being very sophisticated and high-class, we drank our beers in the parking lot so we wouldn’t have to pay for restaurant alcohol. I drank exactly two beers as quickly as I possibly could.
We ate a leisurely dinner and all was well. We walked over to a club where a friend of mine would be doing some sexy performing. All was well. I made my way to the edge of the stage with $25 in ones clutched in my hand so I could make it “rain” on him (It may have been more of a drizzle. Or a very tiny cloudburst). All was well.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, all was definitely NOT well.
I turned to the Man and said:
Then my vision did this:
Then my knees did this:
Then my stomach felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my body.
At this point all I knew was that I needed to get to a bathroom IMMEDIATELY, which was challenging as I could neither see nor walk.
So the Man, a bit shocked at the swift progression of his wife from stone sober to blind and paralytic, half-dragged, half-carried me towards the restroom. I don’t remember much at this point but apparently my brain was still clicking around and came up with this brilliance:
Without warning, and rather shocking to the Man, I summoned the power to work my knees, burst forth from his arms, and ran full tilt to the bathroom door.
However, being that I was still rather blind I missed the door by about, oh, TEN FEET and ran straight into the wall, rebounded off, and the Man (who had by now gathered his wits and leapt into action) caught me from behind.
I was told this.
Because I don’t remember.
I vaguely recall coming into contact with something solid-ish, but it’s mostly hazy until I make it to the toilet stall and shit all of the alcohol out of me.
NOTE: Yes, I crap alcohol out, I don’t vomit. I find vomiting extremely challenging. Which makes me suspect that my poor reaction to spirits has something to do with the alcohol reaching my intestines, which explains why it can be hours and hours before I’m suddenly, out of the blue, incapacitated by the beers/cocktails I drank when the sun was still shining.
Also of interest, once the poison is resting quietly in the toilet and no longer in me I am FINE. I am restored to normalcy as though I didn’t just, moments earlier, nearly die from alcohol poisoning. Someone explain this whole progression to me. Please. There is lots of room for detailed explanation in the comments, fill ‘er up.
So now with my senses restored, I emerged from the bathroom and found the Man waiting with an authoritative security guard who had been ordered to escort me from the premises as I was clearly WAY too drunk and a hazard. Apparently, smacking into the middle of the wall at sprint speed is not an activity they condone.
Once outside I noticed that I could feel my heart beating in my face. And that there was a goodly amount of pain radiating from various peaks of facial bony structure. And that my lips tasted of salt and metal. And discovered that all of those things were because I looked like THIS:
I’ll have you know that despite leaving blood on the club’s wall, my glasses were notably and perplexingly unharmed.
And THAT is why I don’t drink alcohol.
See that?!! If you ever need someone to hold your cash I am SO your woman. I will hold onto your precious bills through blindness, paralysis, bloody injury, AND explosive defecation.