Rachel is in her bathroom. Trying to figure out what to wear.
"You're drunk already, aren't you?" I ask her.
"I'm not drunk," she says. "But I've got a buzz."
She sprays me with something that smells delicious and puts something in my hair to hold the curl. When we join the boys out in the garage, she instructs them all to give them a good once over. A couple of feels were even copped.
I'd not yet had anything to drink.
When we got to the bar - I was drinking without thinking. Normally thinking while I'm drinking leads me to be more responsible. To take in account my behavior, my well being... But there was no thinking. There was, "look how quick I finished my beer!" and "look how I can drink beer from a bottle stuck in my cleavage!" and "I just did another shot!"...
Boobs were prevalent throughout the night. The girls were comparing theirs...the boys were watching.
The next day I would feel completely humiliated. And even a little sore.
By 7 a.m. Saturday - I still hadn't gone to sleep. I was supposed to be home, in bed. I was not. I was laying in Rachel's bed.
It sounds porny.
I can assure - it was not porny.
By 7 a.m. Saturday morning, I'd made sure five people were taken care of and passed out - some more than once - scattered about Rachel's house. Mart has told me not to worry about going home, that he'd take the couch and let me take his side of the bed next to Rachel. But I still hadn't slept yet. I'd cleaned up bodily fluids, picked Doritos off the kitchen floor, put beer cans by the sink and helped with soaking up water from the living room floor.
It sounds responsible...but that was just in regards to the aftermath of when we all got home.
After an eventful morning...the events of which can't even begin to be detailed here...everyone was - once again - passed out. We kicked the boys out of Rachel's bed and the two of us finally made an attempt at real sleep. It was around 8:30 a.m.
Leslie - who'd passed out in another room - brought us water and breakfast by 1 o'clock. Then she climbed into bed with us - and the three of us lay there, virtually motionless until 4 pm - when we finally went home.
Sunday, against what could be better judgement, we were all back in Rachel's garage...drinks in hand. We drank them slower this time...and in lesser quantity.
"Why do my legs hurt so much?!" I finally asked.
Details were recounted. The shots, the beer that I spilled all over myself, the boobs that were paraded around anyone present. The groping, the puking, the rest of it all. As we talked about it - I felt sixteen. The kind of sixteen I never was. The kind that stayed out too late, drank too much and partied a little too hard. And it felt good. I looked around the garage at my friends and didn't want to ever leave. We'd go to our jobs the next day, eventually get back into our routines....at least until the next Friday.
We told the stories over and over again. But it's hard to sum it up all here. But that's okay.
The nights you can't sum up - tend to be the best ones.