I've only been drunk by accident. I hate the feeling of being drunk, and I hate the aftermath. I never sit down with alcohol thinking "I am going to get so wasted." But sometimes, it happens anyway. Usually if I've miscalculated; number of drinks and potency of drinks over time spent drinking and the amount of food on my stomach when I started. Occasionally, I'll mess up that equation and the drinks turn out stronger than I thought they would, or I didn't eat enough that day.
And I only realize too late that, whoops -- I am drunk.
It happened on Sunday, when the Russian lover and I sat down to have a glass of wine before going home for dinner. We planned to stay maybe 30 or 40 minutes, relax, and then go. But then an acquaintence showed up, so we stayed for another round. Conversation was flowing, so when the acquaintence ordered his second drink we ordered our third. Then another acquaintence showed up, and he bought us a round while we chatted. Then a young couple across the bar bought us a round...and here is where I lose track, and I hope that is all I drank. The wine kept showing up, and I kept drinking it, and then I was smashed.
It's hard for the Russian lover, or anyone for that matter, to monitor me. I maintain control of my faculties somehow, and any casual observer would think I was just lightly buzzed. Even the Russian lover has stopped and said, "Wait a minute. Are you drunk?" I answer, "Possibly."
It might be a talent or a superpower or just some weird genetic thing, but I am Remarkably Composed when Completely Wasted. When I'm sober, my thoughts meander and I'm processing many things simulataneously; all at the same time, I'll be having a conversation, trying to remember an appointment, daydreaming about stainless steel appliances, pondering the existence or nonexistence of God, and watching American Idol. But when I'm drunk, all my mental power is summoned into a focused beam of simple directives: STAND UP. WALK IN STRAIGHT LINE. LAUGH AT THIS JOKE. MAKE WITTY REPLY.
When drunk, the parts of my brain normally reserved for analyzing Victorian literature and deconstructing 20th century poetry rally together in an effort to keep me from drooling. The clever or scholarly portions of my mind seem to sense the impending threat to the dignity of my person, so they abandon their stations of intellectual rigour and rush to my aid to help me remember my name and keep my clothes on.
The only thing my mind won't stop me from doing stupidly when I'm drunk is DANCING. For some reason, the drunk me LOVES to dance. The sober me kinda fears and loathes dancing. This is partly residual from my childhood indoctrination against dancing but also, I think, sober me understands just how absurd I look. Even though I only really dance when drunk, the Russian lover assures me that I never dance drunkenly; I just dance like a White Girl Dancing Badly And With Much Enthusiasm. Rhythm be dammed! The Rhythm will not get me!
And indeed, the Rhythm never gets me, nor do I get it. But by that point, I am experiencing the miracle of being upright and the exhilaration of spinning and the freedom of having my only thought be "This is fun."