Time Travelling Properties of Alcoholism

*Originally posted under It's Date Night in December 2015

After romancing a bottle of $8.29 pinot grigio into my bloodstream one crisp Friday night, I began to contemplate the time travelling properties of alcoholism. With stars in my eyes I sauntered over to the attractive man frequenting the table adjacent to mine, practicing my monologue inquiring whether his wedding ring was authentic or just a lazy attempt to deter awkward advances from strange women (spoiler alert: it didn’t. I hit on him regardless). What occurred in the following minutes equated to the most uncomfortable conversation between genders since the day I figured out that “cooties” were only a conceptual attempt made by my parents to prolong my introduction to dating (because my headgear and corduroys hadn’t shot that horse in the face quite yet).

As many years of research have concluded; Redbull may give you wings, but only alcohol can allow you to put both feet in your mouth simultaneously.

After a painstaking high five and a few forced laughs, I turned back towards my table, completely dumbfounded by my ability to go from ‘confident twenty-something’ to ‘pre-pubescent dweeb’ in sixty seconds flat. This particular moment highlighted my discovery of the time-warping prophecies of alcoholism.

Heightened human octave, an inability to do eye makeup appropriately, a hankering for mozza sticks, and a social handicap which tends to only flare up when confronted with the opposite sex are only the base of my correlated life as an intoxicated adult and a clueless pre-teen. Not to mention the ever present drunken whining about temperature, thirst, and abhorrent need for sleep that once echoed through our hardwood-laden gymnasium on occasion that I was dragged to high school dances with the promise of “fun”. Little did I know that “fun” equated to being dry-humped by a sweaty guy with a faux-hawk to the rhythm of “Get Low”.

But really, how many times has Lil Jon been the source of my regrets?

So often I hear comparisons being drawn between toddlers and drunken adults, which I’d like to see the peer-reviewed data on, as I have yet to witness a 3 year old polish off a rack of ribs, dance on a table, try and fight a neck-tattoo wielding bouncer, and get driven home by the cops before passing out on the back porch armed with a jug of Sunny D (hypothetically, of course). Needless to say, all of which occurring under the influence of a six-pack of Black Ice.

Instead, under the influence I tend to revert to my lowest form: 13 years old, distracted by any and all ripples lurking under male t-shirts, and with absolutely no understanding of the term “moderation”. It is at twenty-two that I will slam back tequila shot after tequila shot (withholding salt and lime for added appeal) with the same confidence I fostered when trying out for the boys football team in tenth grade. All in an attempt to get the attention of the Adam Levine look-a-like in the corner who may have glanced my way for all of four seconds (probably trying to figure out what I’m doing with my non-glass wielding hand).

What was I doing with my hand? Was that a gang sign? Stop. Please just stop.

It’s in the morning, head throbbing in rebellion, when I’m forced to figure out how my high heels ended up in the freezer, that I return to my natural adult state. Disgusted by the McDonalds receipts, which list the grease soaked regrets that I persistently claimed I would sell my soul for the night prior, I am once again forced to make decisions as the self-sufficient member of society that I am. It’s after scrubbing off sharpie that spells out “If lost, return to Diablo” that I vow never to drink again. Preemptively saving myself from pre-teen-esque social suicide.

But just like those dials in Marty McFly’s DeLorean, wine is one hell of a seductress.