Sunrise, Sunset

Three nights ago, I went out with some old and dear friends that I do not see very often. I was extremely happy to see them and wanted to have a great time. I am happy to say that we had a fabulous time. In my case, though, I had a little bit too much fun.

Yes, we went to the bar with the intention of being there several hours, but my intention was not to get crazy-ass drunk. I thought I would have a couple of beers or get my wine on, feel good, have a buzz and come home. My intention was not to become so inebriated that time ceased to have meaning and everything around me was spinning right’ round . . . but that is precisely what happened.

I blame it on the “shot” of what can only be called poison (it was the 169 proof one! ) and which probably was the equivalent of having three drinks at once. I blame it on the fact that I rarely imbibe in alcohol or go out anymore. I blame it on mixing beer, wine and the aforementioned firewater. But the truth is that I can try to blame it on lots of things, but it was really all my fault and my stupid self drinking WAY too much. It was my stupid self giving into that feeling of my youth that booze fuels good times . . . and forgetting, somehow, that booze also fuels your ass getting kicked by massive hangovers.

And here I am on Monday afternoon having felt like the world’s biggest asshole since Saturday morning. . . . and feeling a bit ashamed and embarrassed. WHICH FEELS WEIRD, BUT ALSO FEELS RIGHT, WHICH FEELS EVEN MORE WEIRD. I feel more than a bit disappointed in myself and at odds with myself over this rare night out. This is a very unusual feeling for me as I used to go out all the time and have pretty much experienced every level of inebriation that there is. And I have to say, from the 12 hours in Rome that I have no recollection of until I woke up covered in vomit in my hostel room to the evening out where I had the booze hiccups for two hours straight after narrowly escaping getting my ass kicked by hillbillies, it all felt like “good times.” So this feeling of “What’s wrong with me?” is certainly a new one. And I think that this, “Why did I do that?” and “I can’t ever get that drunk again” feeling, well, I think I can safely blame this one on motherhood (or, perhaps, motherhood’s effects on me). And the funny thing is, I’m OK with it.

When the cabbie dropped me off and I snuck into my home – at 2:35 am – I had my first feelings of “Crap! I’m a moron!” I slunk downstairs and slept in the spare room with feelings of vomitude, spinning and disorientation. The feelings of guilt soon followed. My husband let me sleep, unfettered by the children’s various night-time needs, but I was still up every few hours drinking water and taking Tylenol. . . and feeling guilty if I heard him shuffling around upstairs with the children. Finally at 9:30am I got up, showered and joined the family who were well into their morning merriment. I felt like crap, like a bus had run me over and had a pounding headache. At that point, it hit me like a ton of bricks that I really can’t do this anymore. I should be able to partake in the kiddos’ daily fun, needs and routines all the time, and I shouldn’t be dragging myself around because some stranger offered me a shot of rotgut aptly called Sunset. I mean, there are many legitimate reasons to be dragging yourself around when it comes to caring for the kids – your own illnesses, no sleep, the children being sick, the relentlessness of parenthood – but being hung-over is surely not one of them.

So, the “tying one ons” have to come to an end. It’s not just that I can’t sleep in until 11 am or that my body is old and really can’t handle the effects of drunkenness and hangovers. It’s the kids. I don’t want them to ever see me like that, especially as they get older. I don’t want to be compromised in how I deal with them or care for them because I got my booze on. And yes, as my husband lovingly and reassuringly pointed out, this was a very rare occurrence because I rarely go out on the town and even more rarely get stupid drunk. But the thing is, I don’t want my kids to ever have a memory of me being severely liquored up or badly hung-over. Call me crazy, call me hypocritical (which I have been called many times and worse), but there is a difference between being tipsy or “feeling it” and being so drunk one forgets to lock the front door. It feels unseemly, somehow, to allow myself to get to that point and then come home to the family. And maybe I am making a mountain out of a molehill, but in my heart this Friday night, while being really “good times,” was not a good thing and not the right thing.

So, I feel it is truly the end of an era – the last hurrah that has been slowly coming for about 4 years now. I really think it’s over . . . I mean, I will always enjoy a few glasses of liquor and spirits, I will always be me, I will always welcome you into my home with bottles of wine or gin or beer or Bailey’s or Baja Rosa, but “Wino Forever” has left the building. Debauchery, though thou hast served me well, the time has come where I must now bid thee adieu! Good bye dear friend . . . perhaps we will meet again the first time I vacation without the children or once they can sleep overnight at Auntie’s. In the meantime, I ask you to go acquaint yourself with some young lass out on the town, trying to tie one on.

So, I guess this is growing up.