I thought my birthday eve/ morning was very nicely spent and had no plans for my actual birthday...I had thought to spend a relaxing, quiet, lazy day home on the computer since I had done so much already the previous night. However.....
I woke up 6 hours later from my 5 oclock arrival. I went into the kitchen to peek in the fridge as I always do for no apparent reason and ran into my 34 year old roommate, Maria. Maria is the one roommate that I get along with the most and seem to be on the same level in many different topics. She invites me out for walking, shopping, and lunch/cocktails at the Cheesecake Factory and so I agree. We make our way over to the fattie's haven, with few shopping stops, and order ourselves some Mai Thais (which I was warned about for being a bit strong) and a Margarita with salads. All was well and I was happy to get carded and share drinks with someone. My friend Eli had been offering to bring me velvet cake (because he works in a bakery) and came to meet up with us. Maria had been telling me about the bar in the 95th floor of the John Hancock Building, so the three of us made our way up. Unfortunately, Eli was underage (don't I know the feeling) and had to go home because I wished to spend time up in the building for my birthday. The view of the city lights was simply amazing. We sat down to have girl talk over an apple martini.
After our last sips, the idea of venturing out to another bar came about and we walked all around downtown in search of a bustling bar. Of course, on a Sunday, this was more likely to not be satisfied. Eventually, we settle in at a bar called "Howl at the Moon", where the door man had skeleton arms coming out of his back. He was quite friendly (also because he was hitting on my roommate), so we sat ourselves down, ordering another round of Mai Thais and black raspberry jello shots. The jello shot came in a syringe type container and the waiter brought a can of whip creme, and even "serves" it to you by squirting all the jello-y, cremey goodness into ur mouth. There was a live band there to take song requests from the rather low number of drinkers there and Maria had requested a birthday song for me. They made me pick a song (which of course I couldn't) and the lady next to me randomly said "Brown Eyed Girl"- rather fitting (She even requested a Grease song for me and we all danced). When the band took this request, they had announced that it was my birthday...this is where I believe the night had started to go wrong...
After the song, the drinks kept coming. And coming. The couple next to me had ordered me some sort of disgusting shot of liquor (jager I'm suspecting) and the old man hitting on my roommate kept buying us drinks. I eventually lost count of the long ice teas, mai thais, and random orders that I had, but I was definitely in some sort of loopy state. This was evident when I was fumbling around in the bathroom stall, simply to take care of business. Eventually, the bar closed down at around 1 or 2 and we decided to go across the street to another bar.
God, what was I thinking.
We sit down at the bar and not five minutes later, shots of liquor come our way from the two gentlemen sitting in the corner. One of them apparently was hitting on my roommate. I remember putting my head down because I suddenly felt a wave of fatigue and the voice of the bar tender telling me no napping allowed. The next thing I know, my hands are cupped over my mouth and a strange warmth filled them.
Yes, I had thrown up on the bar. And all over myself. And onto the floor. And probably splashed over others around me. I immediately got up as a clean up crew came to mop up and sprinkle powder over the orange mess, and sat down on the sidewalk only to throw up all over myself again. I could hear my roommate somewhat in a panicked state and trying to hail cabs that refused to take a puker home. Eventually one had stopped and we were able to make it home.
What surprised me the most about this whole ordeal was my courtesy and carefulness of my belongings. I carry a bright white purse, vulnerable to any kind of permanent stain, and I found it spotless the next morning. My brand new favorite coat was also spotless and free of vomit. When I rode the taxi, I cracked teh door open to yack instead of doing so in the back seat. I'm somewhat proud of myself.
Monday morning, post Birthday, was probably the first time in a long time, that I feared for my life. I never knew it was humanly possible to vomit as much as I did. Never have I been consoled so much by a trashcan heavy from vomit. I seemed to have made a new best friend that I wish to never see again. I ended up missing class that morning and was unable to keep anything down, whether it be water or even air. The added chores of washing my sheets, showering to get the wonderful smell out of my hair, and throwing out a bag full of my dinner and several drinks from the night before is quite an experience and couldnt feel anymore "twenty one". Now all is a memory and all that is left of that night is a picture hours before my downfall, a jello shot syringe, and vomit stained jeans with the still lingering smell of 21.
That morning, I listened to a voicemail my mother had left me about expecting a package to arrive. I returned her phone call and was told that the box contained plum wine and beer snacks. I was very lucky to know this beforehand, for if I had opened it without any knowledge of its contents, my reaction to it would have been less than ecstatic. I still feel a bit queasy at the sight of alcohol or anything resembling it. It seems that extra hour that the Daylight Savings had given me for my birthday was there for a reason.
The question now is: Do I regret it?
I've been quite optimistic about the whole experience, for it could have been worse. Much worse. I was lucky that it was my roommate to take me out and not my friends, because it would make out to be one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. My outing very well could have been on a weekend or in a crowded setting, but was not. My supposed hangover was not at its full intensity because I had no headache. I have not yet banned alcohol from my life, so it must very well mean that I enjoyed myself as much as I possibly could. I now have two different birthday stories (part one and part deux) to tell and had enough fun to cover nearly two birthdays. There's something satisfying about your roommate telling you they discovered vomit flakes on their pants the next morning in class.
This turned out to be exactly what turning 21 is about: Memorable.
Happy Twenty f*ckin First Birthday. It's great to finally be here.
