For a Pessimist, I am Pretty Optimistic

19 years old - The Night of the 10 Kamikazes

Entering the club in Astoria with my ID un-checked (thanks to a friend of a friend knowing the bouncer), I’m overwhelmed by all the liquor bottles displayed behind the bar.

“What do you want to drink?” the guy that I’m dating asks. I confess that I have no idea – up until this point my only drinking experience has been a couple of wine coolers in college. He brings me a yellowish mixed drink with a heavy citrus taste. “It’s a Kamikaze,” he tells me. “Just like the Japanese fighter pilots.”

I take a sip and mentally shudder at the strong taste, but keep drinking anyway. Then I ask for another one. Then another. Soon I don’t need to ask anymore as my date is considerately making sure that there’s always a full drink waiting for me next to where I placed my pocketbook.

The night starts to fly by and I begin to work the dance floor. “Waiting for Tonight” by Jennifer Lopez plays and I literally squeal. I start shaking my head side to side, making sure that my hair whips my face. I must look just like a girl in a music video, I happily think.

Suddenly, I need to pee. I ask my date to show me where the restroom is. He points down a flight of stairs and then tells me to turn when I reach the bottom. I just grin at him stupidly. He sighs and asks if I need him to help me. “No!” I exclaim. “I’m totally fine!” To show him just how fine I am, I stagger to the stairway, thinking that I’m doing a great runway model imitation. My date follows me and when I balk at this, he says he needs to use the restroom as well.

We reach the bottom of the stairs. To the left are the bathrooms, but right in front of us is a full sized mirror. I stare at the reflection and actually say “Aw man, we gotta go up the stairs again?” and walk right into the mirror. Seriously. “OW!” I cry as my head hits the glass. My date guides me in the correct direction as I glare at the mirror. Where did it come from? I wonder to myself.

After the mirror incident, I decide to sit down and promptly pass out for a few minutes. The rest of a night is a blur. The next morning I wake up feeling fully rested (even though I only had a couple hours of sleep) and my mind replays the moment when my face hit the mirror. I shake my head and think, “I am never drinking that much again.” Since I’m almost late for work, I throw on some clothes, swipe a brush quickly through my hair, and run for the bus which I luckily catch. My stomach is a tad queasy for a second, but that’s cured by an Egg McMuffin.

24 years old- The Night of the 8 Kettle One and Red Bulls

I meet up with my boyfriend and his friends in Forest Hills after work one weekend where it’s apparent that I need to catch up with them. There are several birthdays being celebrated and everyone has practically taken over the back of the bar. I sit down at one of the tables where a group of girls are giggling to each other and my boyfriend brings me two drinks.

“Hey, we’re already dating - you don’t need to get me drunk to sleep with you!” I joke.

“It was 2 for the price of one!” he shouts over the music and nods to the bar where our friend Jesse is working. Sweet, I think to myself. Whenever Jesse’s behind the bar, I’m guaranteed to be nice and drunk in no time at all.

The night passes by with more drinks, cigarettes, some chips and salsa, and plenty of money being put in the jukebox. Somehow our group has been divided by sex: the boys are all gathered around the electronic poker machine while us girls are laughing at the ridiculous horoscope section of a newspaper.

“Golden Years” by David Bowie begins to play through the speakers. “I love this song!” I cheer. “Who put it on?”

“You silly!” one of the girls says. “It’s the 5th time you’ve played it.”

Really? Oops! No matter, I think, it’s time to dance! I stand up just to feel my legs turn into jelly and I plop right back down in my chair. I call my boyfriend over. “Dude, we should go, like, now,” I tell him. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

We head back to his house where I run straight to the bathroom. I vomit a few times and then crash into bed thinking “I am never drinking again.” When I wake up, my head is killing and no amount of Motrin seems to alleviate the ache. With barely enough energy to brush my teeth, I drag myself into work and though I feel like death, by the end of the day I feel like death warmed up.

At 27 years - The Night of the 6 Margaritas

Super antsy after a nearly disastrous week of moving, I leave my husband at the computer playing some worm game and head to the bar in Forest Hills by myself. Sipping on my drink, I’m pleased that everyone is too busy with their conversations to notice me sitting all by my lonesome. My pleasure is short lived though, as I find myself face to face with my ex.

“Why are you here?” he asks angrily.

“Hello to you too,” I reply. “Having a drink - what the hell does it look like I’m doing?” Even after 5 years, there has been no love lost between us.

He rolls his eyes. “No, retarda, what are you doing here? I thought you moved out to Long Island with your husband.” He says the word husband with the same contempt that he has for words such as manners, bookstore, and pre-employment drug screening.

“Yeah and I thought you and the stripper were in Manhattan.”

“She was a dancer, not a stripper. And nah, that’s been done. I actually moved back home.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. Anyway, are you planning on staying here cause if so I’m just gonna finish this drink and go.”

“Leave, I don’t care. Or stay. Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” he bitterly says. I sigh and stupidly ask him why he has more of an attitude than he usually does. It can’t all be because of me, right?

Turns out, he’d been stood up by his date. I let him complain to me as I finish my drink, all the while trying to get the bartender’s attention. It’s obvious he’s already drunk, plus from the way he was sniffing he probably popped into the bathroom to do a couple of lines. I wanted to make my escape before he became either too much to handle or before he dragged me into his drunken melancholy mood.

As I frantically wave the bartender over (I swear, it’s like the rings on my left hand make me invisible - I used to never have this much trouble!) my ex says “Oh sure, go ahead and leave. It’s not like I’m talking to you or anything.”

“Dude, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I have to start heading back home now,” I tell him. Is he going to use my push-over tendencies to make me stay?

Of course he will because when the bartender finally comes over, the ex starts another speech, “I guess it all started after we broke up…” This prompts me to, instead of asking the bartender to close my tab, ask for another drink, which I pound while my ex tells me how all his problems are my fault. As he complains, my stress level rises and I order another drink. Then another. Then…oh, you get the point. Each time I take a chug, I mentally kick myself for coming back to this area (I really should have known better).

Luckily, after listening to my ex list every bad date he’s had in the past five years, some friends of his enter the bar and the mood quickly changes to lively and happy. I try to take my leave again, but as these were mutual friends from when we were still dating, they are insistent that I stay and have a few more drinks. Which I do.

The night flies by and I realize it’s much later than I intended to be out. I drunk dial a couple of friends before I call my husband and ask him if he could pick me up from the bar. Completely forgetting I made any phone calls, I stumble into a friend’s car and get a ride over to my ex’s house. We argue and yell at each other while I wait for my husband to meet me at the new location. My husband arrives, but he’s parked on the next block. “Can you make the walk over?” he asks.

“Of course, why would you say that?” I ask (scream) into my cell.

“Because you drank way too much,” he laughs.

“No I didn’t. And how would you know? You weren’t there,” I tell him, trying to prove he’s not as smart as he thinks.

I start to walk away, but my ex is still jeering at me. I then I turn around, tell him the meanest thing I have ever said to anyone in my life and laugh as he stomps into his building. That’s what he gets for messing with me, I think.

The car ride home is filled with me singing (screaming) P!nk lyrics at the top of my lungs. When we get home I throw myself under the covers. “I can’t go to sleep or I’ll be sick!” I tell my husband and then pass out. Oh well, I tried.

The next morning is a disaster. In fact, it can’t even be considered morning as the nausea kicks in at 3am. When the sun comes up around 6am I practically scream. My husband kindly tapes newspapers over the blinds as I cover my eyes while throwing up in a trash can. 4 hours later, I still haven’t emptied my stomach completely of margarita. I manage to call work and tell them there’s no way I can even think about attempting to come in. Finally around 3pm I get myself out of bed and make some chicken soup. “I am NEVER drinking again,” I think to myself.

(To be re-visited at 30 years)

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