They Tried to Make Me Go To Rehab and I Was Like No, No, No

I don't feel my age very often. I'm young enough where my day-to-day activities don't remind me that the eternal footman is holding my coat and snickering. I don't have many aches or pains, my hair is mercifully not going gray yet, and I'm usually mistaken for someone in their early twenties. It's days like today that remind me that me, and my liver, aren't as young as they used to be.

When I was in college, I could drink. Whatever booze I could get my grubby underage hands on would be consumed in large quantities. Sometimes, as the "panther piss" party debacle of 2003 illustrated in gory Red #4 detail, I'd get sick from drinking and feel miserable. But after passing out, waking up, and administering some coffee and a bagel and half an hour in front of the TV I'd be a functional human being for the rest of the day.

Fast forward four years, and I can't bounce back like I used to. You'd think that my consistent consumption of alcoholic beverages would keep my liver in prime condition to process a night of heavy indulgence, but you'd be wrong. Last night I attended a classy engagement party at the couple's house. I got all dressed up in a hot little number I got at Century 21 in New York last weekend and we all behaved as civilized adults. They even had signs for the hors d'oeuvres. However, I made the mistake of drinking a lot of hard liquor right out of the gate. Despite my best attempts at munching on food, I got pretty drunk. I think I cornered one of the couple's friends and basically brow-beat him into giving me his information so he could get my brother a job. I talked a lot. I sat down and got the spins and had to be sick. I whisked myself into the bathroom discreetly (I hope) and did my business. I went back to the party, sat down, and felt another wave of nausea and stumbled back into the bathroom. Eventually, I ended up passing out on the couple's roommate's bed. I woke up at 7:30 with a complete sense of disorientation. Where the hell...? Ooohhhh, right.

I lay on the bed, roommate snoozing next to me, contemplating how badly my head was going to hurt when I sat up and the fact that I'm an idiot. The morning light was mercifully dim due to the haze over Boston. I wished I hadn't agreed to go home to visit my Mom, because instead of laying quietly in the bed and praying for death until everyone got up and ventured to greasy food, I had to get out of the apartment, get back to my place, collect my things and get to the train. After checking to make sure my dress was still covering me, I got up, put on my shoes, and did the walk of shame all the way back to the Ville.

Despite my best efforts (iced coffee, Gatorade, bagel) I've been a mess all day. My balance is still off. My eyes hurt. My stomach swings from ravenously hungry to wrenching like it wants to hurl again. I could barely enjoy my chowder and clamcakes when my family went out to lunch. Usually I love to drive when I go home, but I could barely keep my eyes open and wished someone else would offer to drive. My Mom wanted to shop and do things, but all I wanted was to watch the America's Next Top Model marathon on MTV. If I didn't have to work tomorrow, I would have crashed at her house and done just that.

When I overhear college kids talking about how they drank so much they don't remember how much they drank, it makes me feel old. While I love to rehash those war stories myself from time to time, they are not the most notable news items of my weekend anymore. ("I got to sleep in until 10am and then go grocery shopping!" is a typical highlight now.) One of these days, I hope that the wisdom of old age will kick in, and I'll put down the third vodka tonic in as many hours next time.

(And, as a totally random side-note: I sincerely hope that "Rehab" is Lindsay Lohan's ring tone right now, because that would be very ironic. And, irony of ironies, it's my ring tone too.)