#MyFirst... Time Drunk

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
Today's topic is My First... Time Drunk

Some firsts happen organically: first kiss, first heartbreak, first moment of fear, first time you taste a double dark chocolate Cherry Ripe and know you want to commit to it for life.

Some firsts need a bit of a push. You want to dive in, so you make it happen for yourself.

And so it was with my first time drunk. I was dying to experience the joys of intoxication, and my best friend Libby* was ready too. I was at her place for a sleepover, her parents were out, and we decided to hit the liquor cabinet and give it a go.

I was fifteen years old.

I was terribly excited.

I wasn't familiar with the Joy of Alcohol, and so started with something close to home. Libby and I poured ourselves shots of Sacramental Grape - the sweet, port-like wine that is drunk on the Sabbath. On the Sabbath it is drunk in thimble sized portions. We drank a tumbler-full each. And then moved straight ahead.



It is Holy, you know

What next? Well, Scotch seemed to be the obvious answer. Libby's father had several bottles of the stuff so we took a little bit from each and drank another full glass.

I don't know how people drink this stuff

The Scotch tasted horrible, and I was starting to feel a bit off. I needed something sweet again. The Tia Maria beckoned.

Not intended to be consumed by the tumbler

We drank a full glass of that each, too.

And well, that was it. I was out for the count. The room spun around me. Thick gauze descended on my brain and the world went hideously fuzzy. I felt dire. I thought maybe I'd die. Nausea clutched me in it's grip and swirled me around. I needed to get to bed. I needed to get to bed now.

"Ah needa gedda bed," I slurred to Libby.

"Me ooh," she muttered. She was a strange shade of puce.

I couldn't stand. Libby couldn't stand. I don't like this, I thought. I want this to be over.

Bed. I needed bed. We crawled to the stairs.

And just that minute, Libby's parents came home. I regarded them from my position on all fours on the stairs.

"Hugumph," I said.

"What's going on," Libby's dad asked in bewilderment. I think he genuinely didn't know. His daughter was a very good girl.

Or had been.

"Weh gogga bed," Libby said. And then she collapsed on the stairs. On top of me. I couldn't move, but I didn't care. Moving equalled death. I was better on the stairs.

I don't remember how I got to Libby's bed. I believe her dad carried me. I do remember waking up in the middle of the night needing to go to the toilet. This was problematic, as the bedroom door was next door to a cupboard, and I kept getting out of bed, walking into the cupboard, and falling back onto the bed again. Three times. By the end I was really quite desperate to wee.

The next day I experienced some of the worst pain in my life. Happily, my parents did not contribute to said pain with punishments or lectures. They knew that the Worst Hangover of All Time was punishment enough.

I didn't get drunk again for years and years. (Okay, the very next year. And the year after that.) But in general, I am not keen on getting drunk. And I have never been able to stomach Scotch or Tia Maria since.

Funnily enough, I do still love my Sacramental Grape. I guess the spirit of the Sabbath shines through the darkest hangover day.

*not her real name.

#MyFirst Blogging Challenge will be on holidays till the end of January. But it WILL BE BACK.