As of recent, I have learned that being the life of the party runs in my family. For clarification, by “life of the party” I mean flashing my labia is the least of my worries. Being on the cusp of 27, I’ve been questioning this a lot as of late. I don’t actually do anything to resolve this “problem” like drinking less or not drinking, I just question my behavior over a nice glass of red.
In my defense, I can count on one hand the amount of times I go out or experience referenced belligerency, in a year. Naturally, I still enjoy copious amounts of wine throughout the rest of the year but this is usually portioned into 1-2 glasses as opposed to 1-2 bottles. Another part of my defense is that I “learned” how to party in Berlin, Germany. When I was 16 I moved there and finished high school. Instead of being a good little student, I went a little nuts. Coming home at 5 a.m. and drinking like a German (of which I am) was the norm. Fast forward to moving back stateside and I learned about a “last call.” My skill set does not jive with these limiting rules. This is how I narrowly escape alcoholism.
Much of my motivation behind this sudden self-evaluation is the type of drunk I am.
Everyone associates with being some classification of drunk. Maybe you’re a happy drunk that wanders around and talks to trees. Maybe you’re a fucking asshole that punches trees. Better yet, maybe you’re a raging slut that fucks trees. No matter your association, somewhere out there is a drunk label waiting to spoon you into a hangover.
I’m the wild card drunk. I set the tree on fire.
I’ve made quite a name for myself as someone you’ll want to invite to a momentous occasion. Bachelorette parties are my specialty but I welcome all good times.
In recent conversations following several inebriated blunders (e.g. “the stairs were incredibly slippery each of the 4 times I fell!”), this declaration revealed itself as widely recognized among my friends.
Scenario 1 (Friend explaining me to another newly made friend):
New Friend: Will Sarah stay out late?
Existing Friend: Oh yeah, Sarah can rage.
Husband Face (to friend and me): You’re the creeper drunk. You kind of just stand in the background like a creep. And you babe are just the worst and your hair gets crazy. You look like a lion.
Friend: I’m a creep? Is it weird? Yeah, Sarah is nuts. Literally anything could happen when you’re drunk. If I found out you were going out and Rich [Husband Face] called me to tell me you got arrested I wouldn’t be shocked.
Me (making an impression of drunken myself): Look guys, I shaved my head. Now I’m a bald eagle!
Friend and Husband Face: Yup.
I’m beginning to question the true meaning of friendship and love.
Luckily, my friends and family are the ones I trust enough to:
- witness what appears to be my schizophrenia shining through
- help me avoid being an arsonist or going full Britney
Despite my comfort in knowing I’ll always be surrounded by someone who will help me make the better and less illegal choice, there are still some setbacks to being the Wild Card.
1. You always have to find a place to stay. A casual night out for a glass or two of wine and you’ll escort yourself safely back to your own bed. IF the night gets any rowdier there is now stopping at two and clearly there is no driving. Finding a safe place to rest your crazy-haired head isn’t difficult but waking up somewhere else, driving home hungover and questioning your life decisions is.
2. People know they have to take care of you. When the wild child comes out, she’s not exactly a paraplegic. That’s a different and incredibly annoying other type of drunk. But I do make terrible decisions and if someone isn’t there to say “hey, let’s not get dance lessons from the stripper tonight” waking up in a gray cell.
3. Your bank account can’t handle you. Affording some drinks and apps with my girls is well within my realm of affordability. Charging the whole bar’s tabs to my debit card and taking them out for 4 a.m. tacos, is not.
4. You have to hear about the stories. Once wild child has gone away until the next holiday or birthday, I wake up ready to take on a burrito bowl. If only the day after were so simple. Instead, Husband Face spend most of the day if not the next several days reminding me of my lunacy. The worst isn’t that it happened but that I have no way to deny it or defend myself because I DON’T FUCKING REMEMBER.
Husband Face: You gave your girlfriend a lap dance last night.
Me: I just love my friends.