ass-intervention

In two weeks, I will be celebrating (?) my 31st birthday. Maybe this year I can get my goddamn shit together. I think I'll start by making this birthday ALCOHOL FREE.

Admittedly, I love the sauce. I love knocking back beers with my bros, I love cocktailing the evening away with my ladies. Being soused has eased my transition from young idealist to bitter dowager so painlessly that I hardly even noticed my dreams withering away like old lady titties.

A few nights ago I accidentally butt-dialed my fiance while getting shitfaced with my buddy, Patrick. For those fortunate individuals who are not familiar with the term "butt-dial", let me enlighten you.
Butt-dialing is a phenomenon occurring when the pda-style phone is placed in the back pocket of jeans, with all of it's navigation buttons exposed, and when your drunk ass is sprawled on someones stoop, buttons can be activated and calls can be made.

Craig spent 20 or so minutes listening to me and Patrick drunkenly rant about such academic and inspirational topics as "puppets who puke" and "where the hell did all that beer go?"

That, however, was not the main issue, as butt dials are a part of life these days, bound to happen to any blackberry owning individual. The main issue was the embarrassment that shot through me when I heard that I had unknowingly drunk dialed my future husband.

What had I said? I had no idea. I could recall little of my evening on Patrick's porch.

But, this is no rare occurrence. In fact, I can hardly recall some of the best moments of my life. To me, celebration has become synonymous with fall down, laugh till you puke, chug-it-like-you-love-it, drrruuuunkkk. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing, I mean, I'm pretty sure I still hold the Long Beach kegstand record. And It's not a bad feeling to have a hometown bartender remember your name after you've lived in a different state for 3 years.

My close personal relationship with beer is not the issue that I am dealing with on the eve of the anniversary of my 21st birthday.

At 31 years old, it is my opinion that the antics that were permissible, if not encouraged at 21, are no longer cute. Passing out on the bathroom floor at 21 is funny. Ha ha you learned something, shake it off, get ready for sociology or philosophy 101.

Passing out any floor at 31 is cause for alarm, possibly intervention.

I should know, at this point in my life, when i am no longer lubricating the social situation, but rather drowning it, choking it, inducing it to vomit, then letting it pass out on the bathroom floor.

My fabulous friend, booze, has been by my side for some of the best moments of my life. Sure, it's done me wrong a few times, but all good friends have their ups and downs. Lately though, those same libations have been leading me down a disgusting alley that smells like rat shit and hobo vomit.

That alley seemed so interesting at 21 years of age. That was before my beer goggles went all prescription on me.

Thus, 2 weeks from my 31st birthday, I will be forgoing the champagne shower, the cocktail marinade, the beer bath. I will be enjoying birthday activities that, at least this year, I will remember.

Wish me luck!