I’m not much of a drinker anymore. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate a really well made cocktail or glass of wine, but those days of dancing around a bar, or on a bar for that matter, are far behind me. I’m not sure if it was the extreme nausea I encountered the next morning, or if it’s because office chairs aren’t made for supporting a fetal position, but I think the abrupt end to my Bacchanalia had something to do with the hang over effect.
Back in the day when I was a young Scoop, my friends and I got such a thrill out of drinking. It all began with us coercing fake ID holders to raid the liquor stores for cheap vodka, tequila if we were desparate. Then, there was the secretive phone call made from under our covers or locked in a closet so our parents couldn’t hear what was going down. After that came the trade-off. A group of high school girls piled into their parent’s much nicer than average car, drove down a couple of winding roads through their fairytale-like suburbia, and pulled to the curb when they saw their “mark,” another mom-mobile parked with it’s tail lights on. Two of them would run out of the car, because girls never travel alone, and with their pony tails bopping behind them, they would feel so stealth but look so ridiculous. The trade was made, mission accomplished, and the scene of the crime was evacuated. Looking back on it now, I can’t believe what we went through for those disgusting bottles of cheap alcohol. If I could talk to that girl right now I would say, “Jamie… you’re an idiot.”
Now, it didn’t stop there. After the exchange was made, we would fight over whose basement we would drink in, or try to find the most hopping house party to crash, and just start pounding. Straight, chased, mixed, cooked, it didn’t matter as long as it went down! This ritual was followed by extreme stupidity, which is something that we just don’t want to touch upon (I just got chills down my spine.. not the good ones).
This activity of scouring cheap alcohol, pounding it like it was the last supply in the world, and waking up sick the next morning lasted a good six years for me. In my defense, I think it lasts a lot longer for other people, and for that I am very proud. Call me a loser, call me a cheap date, I don’t care! I really don’t understand how we all went through that, or how we didn’t die from all of that alcohol. Every time I think about it, it truly amazes me.
Today, friends, I am not that girl. I am the loser who searches near and far for the most talented mixologist, tells them what I am in the mood for, and studies their every move as they concoct the most beautiful and delicious drink I’ve ever had (that week). I am not a prude, I am not a homebody (all of the time), and I do frequent local bars. I am just pointing out that my lazy cheap days of binge drinking are far behind me, and I have developed an appreciation for a finely made cocktail. Like a fantastic entrée, a really well made drink has a lot of depth, layers of flavor, and is treated as if it’s a piece of art.
And with that I say, hold the rail vodka with cranberry, I’ll take Poquito Picante, please… extra spicy 😉