Coming from a family with fairly strict parents, I only knew one thing about alcohol when I got to college: drink as much as you can, as quickly as you can, because if someone sees you, they will take it away. It’s a philosophy that has served me well.
So, when I was a freshman during the week before classes, my roommate suggested we go to this gallery she had heard about.
“They’ll give us free alcohol!” she promised me.
The thought of staring at amateur art and making douche-y comments about the “composition” and “integrity of the piece” makes me want to shove a fork into my eye, but I was freshman in college who didn’t have an ID. I wasn’t about to turn down a chance to be pretentious (and drunk).
We put on are most “sophisticated adult” looking outfits. For me, that meant a low cut white sweater and jeans. I then took some shots, burned the shit out of my hair, slapped on enough makeup to convince someone I was an extra for Jersey Shore, and off we went!
Three minutes into the five-minute walk to the gallery, I realized my mistake. There are a few things in life that don’t mix. They are jeans, eight tons of makeup, sweaters, and the heat of late August.
By the time we arrived, I was already ready to go home. I was already feeling exhausted and dehydrated. Gone were my carefully placed curls and Kardashian-esque contour. Instead, I looked like an aging Broadway actress with a cheap wig and a sweating problem.
But it was barely dark and I was ready to drink more, so I told my roommate I was fine, the heat wasn’t getting to me, and we should just head in.
The gallery didn’t have A/C, but it did have boxes of wine with no one monitoring them, so I wasn’t about to let the heat stop me from getting my drink on.
The wine was gross, but I was so hot and thirsty that I finished mine before we even got to the second painting. We each got another, but my roommate didn’t like hers and was going to throw it away. I never condone wasting alcohol, so I kindly offered to drink it.
We had moved into the next room when the alcohol finally caught up to me. I was feeling extremely confident in my opinions of the art at this point, so I started searching for someone to talk to. One glance at the scruff and man-bun length hair had me hooked. He was older, hot as fuck, and clearly out of my league, but tonight I was (basically) twenty-one and an art connoisseur. I dabbed my pits with a napkin and went in for the kill.
“This piece really speaks to, like, the state of the nation, don’t you think?” I flirted pretentiously. “It’s so…” I trailed off, the heat suddenly getting to me. The room spun. In an effort to rebalance, I leaned forward, then back, then really far forward and felt my mouth opening.
I watched in horror as a mixture of cheap wine, cheaper vodka, dining hall burrito, and regret splashed down my sweater, onto my shoes, and up onto this poor man’s exposed ankles.
I then did what any self-respecting collegiate woman would do: I got the fuck out of there. I ran from the gallery to my dorm, ripped off the sweater, dropped it in the trash (#RIP) and started to cry.
My roommate finally came back, laughing like my vomiting on a guy who was so far out of my league was the funniest thing she had ever seen. I called her a bitch and cried harder.
“At least you’ll never see him again!” she consoled me. The relief that I wouldn’t ever have to face my mistakes washed over me and allowed me to drink away the rest of the week.
By the time classes rolled around the following Monday, I had practically forgotten about that night. Instead, I focused on being a studious-as-fuck-4.0-go-getter. I arrived at my art history lecture early and sat front and center. I’d taken a similar class in high school so everything was vaguely familiar. I felt so confident in my guaranteed A that I decided to introduce myself to the professor and his TA.
Until the TA turned around and I realized he looked vaguely familiar because he was. Because I had thrown up all over his ankles.
Yeah, I dropped that class. .