We’ll start with a disclaimer; when it comes to drinking, I’m a lightweight.

I know, I know, it seems counterintuitive given my size—I’m 6’4” and north of 270 pounds—but for a while now, the joke about me is that I’m am two drinks and table dancing. There was a point in my twenties and early thirties where my liver and kidneys were more efficient, and I could drink copiously at night and recover before work in the morning.

These days, not so much.

A recent weekend out saw me, my brother, my niece, and my girlfriend check out Seattle nightlife at a club called Q. We’d heard it was an excellent place to go to listen to new and old hip-hop. Like any other responsible and budget-minded adults, we had a significant pre-funk session before we hit the streets. Vodka, rum, and whiskey flowed freely in the apartment and don’t taste bad with ginger beer or 7-Up. After an Uber downtown and a bit of talking to get us past the line, we drank some more. I had a couple of beers at the bar, and we danced all night. It was fun, a good time had by all. Exhausted, we all went to sleep.

Half an hour later, I sat straight up in bed out of deep sleep. I yanked off my CPAP and dashed to the bathroom, dreading a number 3.

Back to that joke about my being two drinks and table dancing. Back when I was young, dumb, and in really great shape, I would get drunk and take my shirt off in the bar, enjoying the attention of drunken women pawing at me. I was quite notorious in my friend circle for that. Yeah, yeah, don’t judge me. Now I’m older, wiser, chubbier, and I don’t like being touched by random strangers. I thought about this as I threw open the toilet and waited. I’m not a kid anymore, I thought. I am too old to be puking after a night out.

So, as I camped out in the bathroom, nervously awaiting the violent rehash of the shrimp burrito that seemed like such a good idea after the party a few hours earlier, I made the promise that everyone else does in this situation. “That’s it. I’m done. I’ll never drink again.”

Thirty minutes passed. An hour. No puke. I got to my feet and went back to bed, and as I put my CPAP back on, I thought to myself, “Yup, still got it.”

Sunlight made its way through my blackout curtains, and I found myself awake before the crack of noon. Only, I don’t think it can be called “awake” in the conventional, functional sense. I felt like I was actively being punched in the back of the head and my face felt like it would slide off my skull at any second. I felt like hell, and by the way my girlfriend looked at me, with both horror and pity, I must not have looked nearly that good. This hangover felt worse than any I’d had before, and I only had four drinks. It crippled me for a day and a half, and I renewed the previous night’s promise for all to hear. I’ll never drink again.

Actually, it came out sounding more like “Uuuuggggh.” I have a feeling that something will be lost in translation when it comes time to party again.

#2019 #personal #author #writer #drinking #dancing #Qnightclub #Seattle #funny #CPAP