You're SO Pretty...

There are very few times in my life that I've felt, well, old. The first was when another teacher asked me why I suddenly seemed to be going grey. (Um...maybe because there's not a salon within 100 miles of this trailer park that I'd allow to touch a hair on my head? RUDE.)

The second (and most recent) was when I learned the hard way that I can no longer handle open bars like I used to.

Or at all.

Let me back up. This past weekend, my beautiful sorority sister and former roommate Mal married in the love of her life in a gorgeous winter wedding.

And I? Barfed allllll over a hotel room thanks to my lack of self-control at the open bar.

The gorgeous church

Mind you, on the night before the wedding, my friend Caroline and I had a looooooong discussion about how our friends should totally feel comfortable having open bars now, since all of us were "adults" and could "handle ourselves appropriately".

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Katie and I at the reception

I, the bridal attendant, handed out programs like a fiend at the ceremony. Pomegranate martini in hand, I shmoozed the guests into signing the guest book at the reception. 

Eventually the guest book was full. I danced, drank another martini, and did a couple of laps around the reception. 

Then I drank another martini. And another. There might have been a glass or three of champagne mixed in there somewhere. But hey, it's free, right?

This is when the merriment begins to get a little blurry. I seem to remember someone getting me outside to light sparklers and wish Mal and her new husband off, but I'm not sure how. I distinctly remember hearing someone hiss "Look. At. Ensley", but my eyes were having trouble focusing enough to figure out who it was. 

Eventually, we'd all made it back to the hotel, where I was sitting upright on a bed, silently chanting to myself "You will NOT throw up. You will NOT throw up." (Sort of like a scene out of Eat, Pray, Love, but with vodka coursing through my veins instead of spiritual wisdom.)

Then my friend Caroline blurted out "Does anyone else smell B.O? I smell B.O." To which our other friend decided that I, of everyone in the room, was the one who should check her underarm area for B.O. 

With my nose. 

I think you know where this is going. 

Visions of sweaty, disgusting armpits filled my mind. Before I could stop myself, I was sprinting to the bathroom. The last thing I remember is someone is calling housekeeping and saying "we have a situation...." before I pressed my cheek to the cool, sweet tile and descended into sweet darkness. 

But hey, I'm an adult now, right? I can handle myself. 

*Please do not let the contents of this blog post discourage anyone from inviting me to their open bar reception. The hangover was punishment enough.