As I'm writing this, I'm drunk. Not "falling down the stairs, wake up puking next to a strange guy the next day" kind of drunk, but drunk for my standards. My fingers feel unwieldy and unpleasantly uncooperative and my smile is involuntary, spreading across my face whether I want to be grinning or not. I've spent the last couple of hours at John Harvard's and as the evening's goal was to get drunk, I can testify to having achieved it quite admirably.
I downed the first G&T as quickly as I could manage and on a fairly empty stomach, thereby ensuring that I'll get the mellow buzz as soon as possible. Still, it didn't come fast enough and so after some consideration I ordered a second one, all the while knowing that while one might not be enough, the second will almost certainly put me over the edge of comfortably buzzed and smack into the "don't walk without assistance" territory.
Still, I needed to disconnect my brain and this was the only certain way I know to do that. That or hypnosis and I'm crap at hypnosis. Even worse than I am at being a responsible drunk. Isn't a "responsible drunk" an oxymoron?
So, two glasses of G&T, made with the wonderfully smooth Hendrick's Gin, later and an ice cream sundae with all the trimmings, I was mellow to the point of no return. It would have been a good time to leave and let someone else occupy my seat at the bar except that I was quite literally unable to stand up. Staggering is one thing, not being able to tell the difference between the floor and the ceiling is a bit more of a problem, especially out in public.
Remaining at the bar appeared to be the only option and so I stayed put, perched somewhat precariously on the all too tall stool, rereading portion of the Story of O. Perhaps not a book to read in public at a bar as one "concerned" citizen remarked, a scant moment before asking whether it would be too presumptuous to ask me to read aloud. I demurred, explaining that slurring such beautiful language would be a sacrilege. For a moment, it seemed like he would press his luck but the steadying influence of his more reserved and clearly more sober friend won over and he left me and my book in peace.
After another half an hour I felt brave enough to attempt standing up and stumbling over to the door. Thankfully I was wearing my usual high heels rather than sneakers. No way I would have been able to keep my balance otherwise. As far as sneakers, or any other type of flat shoes for that matter, are concerned, I'm definitely still in training. Five inch heels are another matter though and so I made my way safely out into the cool evening air.
Out the door and into the nearby Michael's arts and crafts store. Isle after isle of craft supplies and not a thimble in sight. Yes, I was looking for thimbles. Finally, with the assistance of a surly girl whose goals in life clearly did not include helping inebriated customers, I did locate two varieties of thimbles. Armed with my purchase, I slowly and carefully made my way to the other side of the shopping center to the safe haven of the Barnes & Noble bookstore. Whereupon, armed with much needed caffeine, I settled down to my laptop and the writing of these random ramblings.
Evening's goals accomplished; gently pickled brain and all.
