Last weekend I attended a Salute to Sausage festival in a neighboring city. Under normal circumstances, a vegetarian would forgo a celebration of meat but to quote Clerks, "I hate people, but I love gatherings." That and someone said there would be funnel cake. In keeping with the German meat-on-a-stick fare, there was also beer, alot of beer. I am not a beer drinker either, so if I was going to have a good time I needed to bring my own entertainment. Which took the form of a ridiculously oversized flask that I filled to capacity with Stoli.
You know where this story is going.
As the evening wore on the stupidity of my fellow revelers became more evident. It would appear that the appropriate attire for a meat fest is a t-shirt with the phrase, "I love the sausage" and a felt hat in the shape of either a stein full of foamy beer or a chicken (with the legs dangling over the wearer's ears). There was also no shortage of Lederhosen, which to be honest, were awesome. The Polka was plentiful and the fried pickle line stretched for 45 minutes.
I drained my flask in a scant three hours and spent the duration of the evening a little wobbly but in high spirits.
That's how the story ends. Or so I thought.
This morning I pulled up to the van and started slowly gathering my things to allow other riders to board first, which would let me have the single seat near the door rather than have to share a bench. So I started checking my voicemail with a furrowed brow (this imparts a sense of gravity) which is a classic time wasting maneuver of mine.
The second message was from a dear friend returning my drunk dial message - and suddenly it all came flooding back.
I remember badgering my husband for his phone, I never take mine in the event I'm tempted to use it. I remember determinedly wading through a crowd of revelers with the phone clutched in one hand and a plastic cup of vodka and melting ice in the other. I remember scrolling through the address book and calling my Best Gay. I remember saying...I remember saying...I remember that I have no idea what I said. Did I tell him how suggestive white sausage on a stick is? Or cry over my unfortunate hair cut? Did I gush about the new season of Project Runway because, let's face it, that Tim Gunn is eminently watchable. Or that after all the alcohol, I realized that I'm a really good dancer. I have no idea.
A weekend drunk dial flashback on a Wednesday morning when I'm on my way to a respectable job looking so professional in an ironed shirt and clean pants should have thrown me under a dark cloud of shame, but it didn't.
I know I'm in the waning years of the period known as my 20s and am reaching the terminal end of the acceptable intoxicated phone use time frame. But still, it's a small comfort to know that I can occasionally shuffle off the responsibilities of my adult life and babble intently into a cell phone on the fringes of bacchanalian madness deep in the heart of Texas.