Drinkers and non-drinkers cannot date successfully. Of my friends who are dedicated to the bottle, actively, most have a story about what happened when they tried to date someone who shunned booze. And, not surprisingly, none of them are still together.
Now I understand why.
Curly and I had been dating here and there for a few months when I moved out to DC. She was the exact opposite of my girlfriend from 2006, a relationship that ended badly. So, naturally, I think I was attracted to the bizarro version of my ex: someone who had no family problems, was a little more straight edge, and enjoyed spending a quiet evening at home. Quite a radical departure from the ex.
To be fair, I didn't try to hide how much I enjoyed alcohol. I was wasted the night I met Curly and -- let me check, yep -- was drinking everyfuckingtime while we were dating, whether it was at dinners or parties.
She bought her ticket, she knew what she was getting into.*
During the course of our relationship she probably consumed, oh, about 10 drinks in four months. That conservatively made the ratio of drinks I had to drinks she had about 237 to 10.
It, honestly, was only a matter of time.
In early May I flew home. It was mother's day weekend and it was also Gautzer's bachelor party. It worked out well with me playing the dual role of good friend and good son.
The night of the bachelor party Curly dropped me off at my friend The Doc's house so I could hitch a ride with him to the scene of the bachelor party, about 45 minutes from where my mom lived. Curly was going to go to dinner with my family and I would call her later for her to come pick me up.
What a plan, right?
The Doc and I get there and meet up with Hispanic Scott, who is pretty much the same person I am and, of course, loves to drink as much as I do. The three of us roll into town and pick up the keg. I also purchase a four-pack of Red Bull and a fifth of Grey Goose. Clearly this night is going to end with deep sobriety and board games.
We get back to the house, start shooting the shit and all of a sudden I am three vodka Red Bulls in. Why not a fourth, right? This is what happens when you drink under a deadline, because I knew Curly couldn't come get me too late.
That's enough, I should probably stop there.
Then comes the keg beer. And a keg beer. And a keg beer. It was really nice to catch up with a lot of the guys I hadn't seen in a few months, so the beer was flowing quite well. This was a pretty low-key bachelor party (read: no strippers) so there was little else to do but drink.
Ok, Curly's out to dinner with your mom, brother and sister -- all of whom she just met the day before -- while I am at a bachelor party. I am already doing more than most involved men would be allowed to do. I should stop and go home.
The Doc: "Hey, who wants to play beirut?!"
Me: "Me!"
One game, two games, three games aren't enough. By the end of the seventh game, however, I am completely obliterated. I can barely stand up, and my phone now has a San Andreas-style crack in the screen from when I drop it on the concrete while I try to drunk text my eighth-grade girlfriend.
Oh, and it's really late.
Like, 9 p.m. late.
That's right, I brought this condition upon myself in a shade over three hours.
Finally, Curly calls me and I tell her I am ready for her to pick me up.
She takes about 45 minutes to get there. I pass the time by eating fistfuls of macaroni and cheese, erupting into fits of hysterical laughter with the other guys and swigging a few more beers. When she gets there I forget all modicum of decency, fail to say goodbye to anyone, and half sway, half stumble out to Curly's car. I get inside, look at Curly, and say the words that every girlfriend wants to hear when her boyfriend leaves a bachelor party........"I'm so ashamed."
Then my eyes shut, my neck went limp as a newborn and I slumped against the window.
Two things happened while I'm passed out:
1) My friends at the bachelor party grow concerned for my whereabouts because they had no fucking clue where I am and no one had seen me leave. A gaggle of them, drunk as piss, took to the massive yard at the house in the hopes of finding me. Apparently they were walking around the yard, hunched over like Sherlock looking for clues -- thinking perhaps I had shrunk to the size of a raisin -- screaming my name.
2) Curly got lost.
She had, literally, no idea where she was. She pushed me, hit me, yelled my name and.....nothing. I did, however, snap out of my coma long enough to inform her that it would be a good idea for her to roll down her window. The last hazy memory I have is letting my blonde head dangle outside her car like a sleeping St. Bernard.
I woke up on the couch.
That in and of itself is not surprising. The surprising part is that I actually fell asleep in my bed. Apparently I had a sleepwalking episode and managed to find myself in my mother's living room at 3:30 in the morning, with no fucking clue as to how I got there.
I went back into my room and woke up Curly.
Me: "How did I get on the couch?"
Curly: [with attitude] "I don't know."
Me: "What's your problem?"
(In retrospect the fact I even asked that question shows how completely oblivious I was, but I was still drunk.)
Curly: "I don't want to talk about it now. Go to bed."
Me: "No, what the hell is wrong?"
She sat up in bed.
Looked at me.
And started crying.
..............................................Oh no.
Through her intermittent tears she told me that she was very concerned about my drinking and that I really needed to take it easy because my family is concerned and she is concerned and she just couldn't handle too much more of that.
Concerned?
Really?
I'm fine.
But, sometimes you have to humor people.
Me: "Ok, ok. I promise. I'll try to take it a little easier."
And I did.
I tried.
(I'll write the ending tomorrow, because this is already a little long. Bad as that is, I think it may get a little worse in Part II. Also, to Alcoholic's Anonymous: Feel free to use this post how you see fit. I think you may do well to file it under "D", for "Denial.")
*"I say -- let 'em crash"...obscure "Airplane" reference. Anyone? No?
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