The cold, clammy memory of last night’s apology-necessitating act is every Enthusiast’s nauseating-yet-necessary champion-breakfast appetizer (breakfast of course being Kentucky coffee and a fist full of aspirin). But there are as many types of dristakes as there are Enthusiasts to make them. What is the best way to handle your victims the morning after?
1. I’m sorry I puked. You’re going to have to replace or thoroughly clean whatever you emptied last night’s Nail plus last night’s Double Down on. If you regurgitate on your friend and they demand you bathe them to undo your damage, do your enthusiastic duty: roll up your sleeves, and start gently cleansing their bare flesh with a warm, sudsy, over-sized sponge. Whether what you’re doing is literally cleaning up yesterday’s chunky over-enthusiasm or merely fulfilling their previously-repressed fantasies about you, just go with it. And if your vomit victim’s eyes roll back as you sponge away and they start muttering “nurse … nurse” in between satisfied gasps, keep sponging—you’re on the path to forgiveness. Besides, as an Enthusiast you’ve experienced and enacted far stranger things. Alternatively you could offer a revenge-heave. Gets you out of soaping them down, and/or paying to dryclean their “swayed” jacked and/or having to bleach their car’s air conditioning vents. What do you care about a return regurgitation? You’re wasted!
2. I’m sorry I burdened you with my secrets. Last night it felt so liberating to open up and cry about those mother issues, that pesky eating-your-twin-in-the-womb incident and resultant internal hair growth that required surgical removal (and the subsequent night terrors that mean you always sleep alone), that one time you tried golden showers, and the true origin of that … thing … on your chin that everyone previously believed to be an innocent, albeit unusual, birthmark. But blinking back the cruel light of day, panicked thoughts turn to time machines and how to construct one to reverse the clock back to about 11pm when you had the opportunity to do far less humiliating and painful things at the bar—such as initiate an arm wrestling match with the roided-up lady on the next stool over, or play “Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk” on the jukebox, and strip to it. Or piss yourself.
Embarrassing, superfluous confessions are drinking’s most busted face, and the less-appropriate the person you reveal yourself to—in person or by drall or drext—the more morning car bombs you’ll need to gain the courage to apologize. On the low-consequence end you’ve got the who-gives-a-fuck-they-should-know-anyways-given-the-variety-and-volume-of-body-fluids-you’ve-shared-with-them long time and/or legally locked down significant other. On the other end of the spectrum grandparents and current bosses reside. Confess anything more private than: “I like the sweater you got me for Passover this year better than the one you gave me two years ago!” (elderly relatives) or, “I am too much of a perfectionist and work way too late almost every night!” (elderly relatives and/or boss) and you should consider faking your own death to escape the impending shame spiral.
3. I’m sorry I promised to help you out with that thing that I’m never going to help you out with. You called at 7:30 am—really? Oh, shoot. I guess my phone was broken but it suddenly started working again just now when you called back, at 3pm … the following Thursday. Oh and my oral surgeon also told me I should refrain from helping people move for at least … nine, ten, elev … fourteen weeks after my wisdom teeth extraction. Wisdom tooth, I mean. Okay, they didn’t pull any teeth, per se, if you want to get all hung up on semantics. It was more like a filling. And by that I mean, a cleaning. Okay, okay—I flossed. Last week. Hope the move went well!
Do you see, Enthusiast? Excusing yourself here makes you look like the asshole that you are. You’re going to need to admit your error, emphasize how insanely wasted you were, and offer to make it up to them. Just pick a favor you will actually follow through with. Remember that mornings are for hair of the dogging only, so don’t promise to do anything aside from drinking during them. Stay in your comfort zone: take them out for four rounds or nine at your local dive bar. Or better yet: show how much you really care with a batch of homemade ‘shine.
4. I’m sorry I made out. A sexy beast like yourself, you probably made his and/or her day(s)! In some cases this person, believe it or not, should really not have been made-out with (coworker, client, best friend’s love interest). Depending on your relationship with them and/or the people they are involved with, simply pretending it never happened could be the solution. Or a quiet email suggesting that the two or you never speak of it again. Or maybe you just wait until the next holiday party and take another stab at it. You just might have found your next future spouse.
But say you’re already married. Time to file this one away in category number 2—and if you must confess, try not to confess to the spouse you’ve wronged. Try a priest, they’re an odd bunch. Or better yet, roll with it like it’s intentional. Honey, I’ve got this great idea for this thing we can do, maybe you’ve heard of it, it’s called “swinging?” They’ll never know that wasn’t your intention all along, and congratulations, now you can swap your life away. But what if you’re single … and the maked-outed-with was not. This one is tricky. Is the offended couple attractive? Try the swingers suggestion again. Maybe you’ve made special adult playtime friends for life. Fuggly? Everyone is attractive after enough drinks, so get on that. As if you need another excuse.
5. I’m sorry I drank your ’55 Chateau Margeaux. So-called “drunk goggles” don’t just render the ugly dude playing soli-checkers in the corner of the bar into a fine specimen who could model expensive yachtwear, or the dumpy chick passing out into her boot of beer into a Maxim model too smokin’ to wait for privacy to get all handsy with. Drunk goggles also make very expensive booze look chuggable—your enthusiasm must be pandered to at any cost, after all. How rare was the wine/single malt/Chinese PBR who’s cork you pushed in with the key to your Kia, swigged, spilled, and regurgitated on your friend’s swayed coat? Was it bequeathed to them by a deceased relative? You might just want to leave town. Was the booze older than you? Run. Older than your great uncle Livesforever McOldmanstein? Faster, drunky. Faster.
6. I’m sorry I said you were “the worst lay I’d ever had including that hitch-hiker I picked up outside Reno and screwed in the 76 station bathroom and then fell asleep halfway through because it was so bad, and even worse than my first time ever when I think we were using the wrong parts for at least ten minutes.” Do you care about this person’s feelings and/or want to avoid their hatred of you? Feign outrage at this affront to your unwaveringly respectable character and bust out your best voodoo mind-meld hypnosis on them. I never said that. You must have been roofied. And blacked out. And had a terrible, awful nightmare about me saying that. That thing that in real life, never, ever would I breathe a word even similar too. Yes. Yes. Shhh. There there. There there. That is clearly and unarguably what happened.
So drink up, Enthusiast. With atonement skills like these, you’ll never fear another post-blackout morning again.
Confession booth photo courtesy of jess. g, flickr.
Statue cleaning photo courtesy of cmdphotos, flickr.
Moving photo courtesy of Mark Storberg, flickr.
Make-out picture courtesy of august.waskilowski, flickr.
Wine photo courtesy of dyhatt, flickr.
Restroom photo courtesy of jdeeringdavis, flickr.