Why it might be time to stop drinking

A special shout out to my liver for making this post possible, especially as I sip rum and nog on this beautiful Christmas morn. Enjoy your holidays, all!

I like to drink. I enjoy drinking. I LOVE TO BOOZE IT UP. Ok, maybe that’s taking it too far, but for those of you who have uncorked a bottle of wine, unscrewed a bottle of liquor, or uncapped a bottle of beer with me, you’ve seen the glimmer in my eye and the pep in my step. Cue in concerned gasps, “Rachel! Are you an alcoholic?!” No, no where near; nonetheless, I’ve certainly asked myself that question a few times throughout my life. As an experiment three years ago, I went booze free for four months. Successful? Yes. Easy? Definitely. Burdensome? Nope. Fun? Meh…Not as much as when there is a martini glass glued to my hand.

While I’m no longer concerned with being a souse, I am concerned that maybe it’s time to at least cut back on the saucing, and here’s a lovely little narrative that delineates why.

Our journey begins about a year ago when my NorCal BFF, Megan, took me on my first trip to Napa Valley and my love affair with wine began. I still remember calling my mother and telling her, “I found this red wine I really like. I think it’s called port.” To which she replied, “Jesus Christ. Of course my daughter would like port. It’s not even wine; it’s practically liquor!” Since then, my liver and I have had had a love-hate relationship with this libation. (I love to pour it down my gullet, while my liver hates sieving it from my bloodstream.)

Couple this newfound wine affinity with the greatest dive bar ever, Fred’s, within walking distance of my apartment in California, and a year later I have beaten, drowned, dehydrated and trained my liver into an awe-inspiringly efficient filtration system.

After a restless red eye into Guadalajara, tacos de rata and freshening up with a little Head & Shoulders, I was ready to hit the town with Marco and his Mexican posse. And so began the true testament of my liver’s ability to outdistance even Mexicans. Our first stop was to a traditional cantina where I was introduced to songs, chants and cheers and a terrible beer called Pacifico. Next up, to appease la Gringa, we went to a blues bar, where, no longer being able to endure Pacificos, I decided to move on to tequila shots. Some eyebrows were raised in my direction, but a Mexican Flag was eventually ordered for me. Ok, American Girl, you want tequila, we’ll show you how to do it right. Smash a lime slice in salt, take a bite, thrown down the shot and then sip up a shooter glass of tomato juice. More eyebrows were raised when I then exclaimed, “This is how I’m serving all my tequila shots from now on!” Becoming anxious that I would soon drop to the floor, they decided to take us salsa dancing to work the liquor out of our systems. However, one shouldn’t salsa without a little liquid refreshment, and it being Mexico and all, you probably shouldn’t drink the water. Coronas for all! Dancing was had, more beers were drank and eventually the bar closed for the night. However, home we did not go, but rather to a techno club. My feet were aching, my legs sore from dancing and voice hoarse from laughing, but we soldiered on and finished the night strong at 5am with strobe lights, glow sticks and vodka and Redbulls. And by we, I mean me; I was ready to go to the next club, but alas my escorts were ready for some shut eye.

Now here is the heart of my journey to self-realization that I have been taking my dear liver for granted, my first Mexican wedding. The night started off pretty tame, a lovely dinner, a brandy and coke, watching the beautiful bride and groom have their first dances. Then came a torrent of traditional Mexican wedding dances. You know what helps you understand a foreign language better and improves dancing skills? Alcohol! Another brandy and coke and I was out on the dance floor getting my groove on. What?! Another version of salsa I have to learn on the fly? Ok, another brandy and coke then! Another choreographed tango line? Yesshhh, another brandy and coke!! Rinse and repeat this a few times and I was having a goooood time. However, all good things must come to an end, and the band started packing up around 3am. I started to gather my belongings, but no one was leaving. Hesitant to bother my translator for the umpteenth time that night to ask what the hell was going on, I quietly sipped what may have been my 20^th brandy and coke while rubbing my frigid hands over my swollen toes. 3:15am and another band walks in and sets up. You’ve got to be kidding me?! I call over Marco and ask him what in God’s green Earth is going on, and his response will forever be etched in my memory, “Of course. It’s Banda,” all the while shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly and returning to his prior conversation, as if all weddings have a second band that comes past 3am. The music starts again, and so begins another round of dancing. At this point my feet refuse to be trapped by strappy sandals and I take a seat. Several of Marco’s cousins join me and a round of tequila shots are ordered. Uh oh, this could go down quickly. As more and more guests join the table, more and more shots are ordered. And more and more eyes are drawn to me. Hmmm, Gringa seems to be holding her own. We’ll fix that! A Spanish drinking chorus is begun, a glass of whiskey is thrust into my hand, and the crowd looks at me expectantly. I ask what I’m supposed to do and am told, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ummm, ok. I take a sip of my glass, and the crowd cheers. But wait, I’m being shouted at again, “Fondo fondo foooooooondo!!!” I take another sip, the crowd roars, but the chanting starts once again. After several rounds of this, I finish my glass and magically another one appears in my hand. Crap, what do I do?! I ask again and am given the same response, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ooooh, what the hell; I tilt my glass back and pour down the entire contents in one fell swig. The crowd goes silent for several seconds, and then a new chant is started: “Rachel for president! Rachel for president!” A few more tequila shots, and we end the night no longer strangers from different countries, but primos, brought together by our unusually high alcohol tolerance.

However, if Mexican 20-somethings are impressed with my drinking skills, then perhaps it may be time for me - a corn-fed, Midwestern, Caucasian girl- to cut down on my drinking, After all, I did promise my liver I’d treat it well in the new year…