I'd like to start off by dedicating this blog to five other people who are as inebriated as I am right now, though in my defense, I am sipping coffee as I type this.
I should probably mention that this is only the third time in my forty-six years that I have been intoxicated, and one time was at a church luncheon because I hadn't eaten anything at all that day and they served wine first, so does that really even count? I'm thinking no.
After a day of marathon shopping, which left me with naught but a beautiful pink lipstick, I came away package-less and in search of the nearest Jenny Craig. This is, perhaps, not the time to go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant with an overly friendly waiter cheerfully offering margaritas. I'm usually the one saying, "No, I'm fine with water." But tonight? I did not so much as hesitate in ordering the drink. Maybe it will take the edge off this feeling that I'm old and fat and in need of a life plan that will not keep waking me up at 4:30 in the morning wondering why I don't own my own damn condo by now.
When the drinks came, the waiter winked at my friend Anthony and told him he put in extra tequila. I, being the novice among us, thought he meant he put the extra only in Anthony's drink. A few sips into my icy cold beverage, I felt the room start to spin and my face get hot. I decided this was the time to make an announcement. "Hey you guys...I'm drunk."
Now I would like to tell you that the more experienced drinkers at the table thought I was joking, but in truth, from where I sat, they all looked a tad drunk, too, from their one beverage. They started laughing at/with me. I said, "I'm not kidding. I don't think I'll be able to stand and walk." Fortunately, our food hadn't arrived yet, so maybe there would be time for it to absorb some of the alcohol.
For some reason, our conversation involved other meals we'd eaten at other restaurants and where else we wanted to eat in the future. It really is all about the food, you know. I'm convinced that if there's a heaven, it involves a banquet of my favorite foods. Yeah, yeah, there's light and love and all that other good stuff, but I'm convinced there will be a pint of Ben & Jerry's at the end of it and no Type II diabetes anywhere to be found.
As I continued sipping my drink, undeterred by the thought that I might literally pass out in my Spanish beans and rice, I wondered how people who really drank actually did it. I mean, we're talking about one drink here and I was three sheets to the wind. Someone said, "Ilene, you're a lightweight," to which I responded, "That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me."
As the check arrived and I scrambled to down as much water as I could in the hopes that it would dilute the effects of the cocktail, I mentally struggled to reassess the notion of standing up. The room was still kind of spinning. It was time. We all stood up, got on our jackets, and then came the true test - walking. I almost got mowed down by the busboy balancing the trays of tortilla chips and salsa he was bringing to a table. I swerved to miss him. My friends were laughing hysterically. I maintained my tilted posture as we exited the restaurant, artfully (in my mind, at least) maneuvering the few steps to leave.
As I prepare my bedtime chaser of Advil and a glass of water, I am inclined to agree with my friend Jenn who wisely leaned over during dinner and informed me, "Tequila is no joke."
So let this blog serve as a cautionary tale, boys and girls, that 1) One drink can really be one drink too many or at least all you need, 2) That you should be wary of anyone who is just a little bit too happy to serve you, and 3) that tequila really is no joke.
Sweet dreams and thanks for stopping by.
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