A Little Bit Drunk

Last night my coupled-up roommates had a pair of coupled-up friends over to eat chicken in our kitchen. I was invited, but I am a vegetarian, and also, I am woefully un-coupled-up. Usually, this isn't a big deal, but it stressed me out last night because the boy in the coupled-up friend pair was someone I had briefly dated, and who had rejected me, I am pretty sure because my breasts are too small. He said it was because I was too nice, but that's a stupid reason that no one would ever believe. I think it's because my breasts are too small. That's generally what I assume when I get broken up with. My bra size is 34-Nearly-A. That's literally what it says on the tag: "Nearly A." It's like the bra company wants me to think that if I try hard enough, I might be able to do better. To protect everyone's identity here, we will call this friend couple Diane and Woody.

So we all gathered around the table to eat the chicken. One of the worst things about being a vegetarian in a room full of liberals who eat meat occasionally is the inadvertent but potent guilt that immediately starts to set in. People try to move the meat as far away from you as possible; sometimes they even go through the trouble of moving the platter to the other side of the room once everyone is served, like you are a chaste bunny rabbit who has never seen real human food before, and it might kill you if you see too much of it at once. Everyone begins to chirp variations of, "This chicken was raised humanely! By a farmer at a Farmer's Market!" Then they all start to eat and try not to say, "Mmmm," or, "This is good." Sometimes they accidentally slip up and compliment the chef, and then they immediately realize that they've made a dire mistake and look at you with that look you get from people who accidentally mention that your ex-boyfriend is dating someone else, because they've forgotten you two used to date. It's all very sweet, but comically unnecessary.

I was determined not to be whiny, or martyr-like, or a fifth wheel, so I decided to drink a beer. And then some wine. And then some wine. And then some wine. 

I don't really drink. This is a really unattractive quality, actually: I will drink on occasion, so I don't get to sound badass and shrug people off and say, "Psshht. No. I don't drink." That wouldn't be true. Instead, I just say, "No thanks, I will stick to club soda" like 90 percent of the time. The other 10 percent of the time I don't hold my alcohol very well, because I very rarely drink. So I kind of sway around, knocking things over, telling other peoples' secrets, and making everyone wish that they had chosen to not be in the same room as me.

By glass two of wine, I was drunk. Not wasted or anything, but drunk enough to hijack the dinner conversation -- which had been about the artistic direction of a controversial and high-stakes play -- and make it about how I had signed up for OK Cupid that day to see if I could find a hot couple who wanted to do a three-way with me. I was pretty sure that this line of conversation made me look exciting and daring, particularly to Diane and Woody, who I wanted to make sure knew that I was super-cool and sexy and hot. I did not add that I immediately un-signed-up for OK Cupid because who was I kidding? I wasn't going to just meet a random pair of people and do a three-way. I'm the kind of person who gets drunk on two glasses of wine and still thinks it's relevant to make Annie Hall references. Let's be real.

Woody had to leave early. I had some more wine. Since I hadn't been eating chicken, my stomach was empty-ish, and this glass of wine pushed me from being dinner-table-drunk to text-message-drunk. I pulled out my phone and started sending ill-advised text messages to anyone I thought might respond. I sent one to someone about how their dislike of Elizabethtown was condescending and rude. I sent another one to a girl who is way out of my league that just said, "When will you come over and make out with me?" No reply to that one. I might have misspelled "make out." 

At first, being drunk is fun and exciting. It feels like there are nothing but possibilities, and the world is on a platter. For me, that feeling lasts about ten minutes. It's a great ten minutes, but it's ultimately not worth it.

Because what happens next is that I start to feel super, super alone. Then I usually text my sister, whose job it is to help me feel better. These text conversations go like this:

ME: I'm alone forever no one loves me I am weird and fat and ugly and drunk.

HER: Awww, baby. You are drunky drunk. I LOVE YOU.

ME: I will never leave my bed again The world is a terrible place and I have failed at it.

HER: [Emoji of a heart, emoji of an ambulance]

ME: Why doesn't [INSERT NAME] love me?!

HER: [INSERT NAME] does love you!

ME: I cant fnd my Costa Rican

HER: ...

ME: I mean

ME: I cnat fnd my Costarican

ME: I ct fndmy costume

ME: I can't find my cat.

HER: I'm sorry, boo! [emoji of a cat]


This is fine. I'm lucky, because I have a really nice sister who regularly drops everything to deal with my mild panic attacks.  It's just that I think my brain is not set up to consume really any amount of alcohol. I think I'd rather just experience things as they are. 

Because last night, I felt sad going to bed. I wished that I was a different person who knew how to navigate relationships better. I wished that I could find someone to be with who would coddle me and be totally aroused by my ennui. I wished I was not alone in my bed feeling cold and misunderstood, with nary an OK Cupid account to guide me.

But none of that was actually true! Drunk Sophie was tricked into thinking it was true. See, I am just the person I want to be, honestly. I navigate relationships just fine. Also, I actually don't want to be coddled. I want someone who will tell me to snap out of it when I sink into the whiny, sad, Degrassi -like depths. Finally, in actuality, I wasn't alone at all. My roommates were just in the next room; my cats were both on the foot of my bed (because, electric blanket); and I am surrounded by stacks and stacks of good books. 

I will make this mistake again. I will feel desperate and stressed out, and I will think that it is a good idea to have a drink. I am still operating under the impression that having a drink makes you look cooler, which is unfortunately incredibly important to me, so there's no chance that I'll be able to remember that as uncomfortable as I might feel as a sober person, life actually makes a lot more sense that way. It's easy to forget, but I don't want to block reality; I want to experience it. 

Also, let me know if you're in a hot couple and you want to do a three-way with me. Please be warned that I have small breasts.