Written by: Caitlin Herdman
Throwback Thursday indeed.
After romancing a bottle of $8.29 Pinot Grigio into my bloodstream one crisp Friday night, I began to contemplate the time travelling properties of alcoholism.
With stars in my eyes I sauntered over to the attractive man frequenting the table adjacent to mine, practicing my monologue inquiring whether his wedding ring was authentic or just a lazy attempt to deter awkward advances from strange women.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t. I hit on him regardless.
What occurred in the following minutes equated to the most uncomfortable conversation between genders since the day I figured out that “cooties” were, only a conceptual attempt made by my parents to prolong my introduction to dating – because my headgear and corduroys hadn’t shot that horse in the face quite yet.
As many years of research have concluded, Redbull may give you wings, but only alcohol can allow you to put both feet in your mouth simultaneously. After a painstaking high five and a few forced laughs, I turned back towards my table, completely amazed by my ability to go from ‘confident twenty-something’ to ‘pre-pubescent dweeb’ in sixty seconds flat.
This particular moment highlighted my discovery of the time-warping properties of alcohol: Heightened human octave, an inability to do eye makeup appropriately, a hankering for mozza sticks, and a social handicap which tends to only flare up when confronted with the opposite sex.
Not to mention the ever present drunken whining about temperature, thirst, and an abhorrent need for sleep. All of which once echoed through our hardwood-laden gymnasiums on the occasion that I was dragged to high school dances with the promise of “fun”. Little did I know that “fun” equated to being dry-humped by a sweaty guy to the rhythm of “Get Low”.
But really, how many times has Lil Jon been the source of my regrets?
So often I hear comparisons being drawn between toddlers and drunken adults, which I’d like to see the peer-reviewed data on, as I have yet to witness a 3 year old polish off a rack of ribs, dance on a table, try and fight a neck-tattoo bouncer, and get driven home by the cops before passing out on the back porch armed with a jug of Sunny D (hypothetically, of course).
Instead, under the influence I tend to revert to my lowest form: 13 years old, distracted by any and all ripples lurking under male t-shirts, and with absolutely no understanding of the term “moderation”. It is at twenty-two that I will slam back tequila shot after tequila shot (withholding salt and lime for added appeal) with the same confidence I fostered when trying out for the boys football team in tenth grade. All in an attempt to get the attention of the Adam Levine look-a-like in the corner who may have glanced my way for all of four seconds.
It’s in the morning, head throbbing in rebellion, when I’m forced to figure out how my high heels ended up in the freezer, that I return to my natural adult state. Disgusted by the McDonalds receipts, which list the grease soaked regrets that I persistently claimed I would sell my soul for the night prior, I am once again forced to make decisions as the self-sufficient member of society that I am.
It’s after scrubbing off sharpie that spells out “If lost, return to Diablo” (Who is Diablo? Did I join a cult last night? What did I do to pay for that McChicken?) that I vow never to drink again. But just like those dials in Marty McFly’s DeLorean, wine is one hell of a seductress.