For some of us, our first time tanked did come at what some bloggers refer to as “a disturbingly young age.” Maybe it was the disturbingness of that awkward stage that lead this Enthusiast to her first bottle, or maybe it was the feverish anticipation of fourteen years and freshman year and the thrill of the unknown. It was July and one of my best friends at the time had returned recently from France, arriving triumphantly at SFO, her suitcase brimming with legally-bought bottles. Five of us girls schemed a sleepover at the victor’s home, waiting for parents to doze off before breaking fifths of tequila and rum from under piles of tucked-away clothes in a bedroom closet.
Less experienced than my companions, I was especially eager to pull the small round limes from my backpack and salt my thumb’s webbing. “It burns,” they explained. “Drink it fast.” Salt taste, then sharp, wet scent as I raised her parents’ shotglass. Acrid effervescence met at mouth with sour. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “This is great.”
Two more shots than years I’d lived later, my friend’s room was a warm and fuzzy wonderland where everything was funny. “LOOOOVV-IN’—IS WHAT I GOT! I SAID REMEMBER THAT LOOOOOVVVIN’—IS WHAT I GOT I GOT I GOT I GOT I GOOTTTTT…” As with all drunken nights, even first times, we karaokeed our faces off. We stripped to skivvies and freestyled about the merits of our various undergarments. Shot-taking disintegrated into dance-partying. Sublime, (self titled), needed to be LOUDER, and thus we ventured to the detached garage, be-stickered boombox and rum bottle in hand, the tequila long since lost to our bellies and bloodstreams.
Then it got ugly. One girl lost it, suddenly, in a corner of the (carpeted) garage. In a daze, buckets were procured and towels ripped from cabinets. The sight of vomit seemed to trigger a chain reaction. Suddenly, the other four girls were all facing buckets or clutching stomachs and running outside. A brilliant plan was hatched to save the drunkest among us from … something … We called Her Mom, “<Beeeeep> is really, really sick … it’s soooooooo weird, nowedunnowhy. Youshouldcome, ummmm, youshouldpickherup?” Mom arrived with fears of rotten shellfish in her head but soon smelled the telltale odor. I don’t remember much from here on out, but I do remember Her Mom getting the Other Girl’s Mom and exclaiming, “They’re drunk as skunks!”
The next day—I felt great, actually. Until 4 pm, when I forcibly-voluntarily confessed the previous night’s crimes to My Mom, ahead of Other Girl’s Mom’s impending phone call.
Ahhh, youth: wasted on the wasted-young. Not that I’d ever condone underage drinking. For any person other than myself in the past, that is. And even then, sometimes, I wish I had waited for the “right” booze. Or at least a cocktail that called me the next day.
The moral of My First Time? Inexperienced though I might have been—I was the only one who didn’t puke.