After a six-hour drinking marathon on Tuesday night that involved a dinner party, an actual party, and an after party, I was pretty much shitfaced. Considering the amount of alcohol consumed, it was a small miracle I even got out of bed the next morning, especially since the majority of my drinking was in the form of wine – boxed wine, no less.
When I woke up that next morning, a few things came back to me: I ended up at Puck Fair, some guy jumped out of his chair in joy when he found out that I write this blog (my ego was quickly deflated when none of the seven other people at the table had even heard of my blog), I made at least five drunken phone calls, I ran into a kid I went to high school with who I hadn’t seen since graduation day, and I accidentally woke up my roommate when I barged through the door and poured myself some water.
However, there’s one thing that didn’t come back to me: how I got home. This is one gaping hole in my memory from Tuesday night. It’s as though my recollection of transporting myself from Puck Fair to my apartment was just snatched from me completely. I remember walking out of Puck Fair. I remember walking up the stairs to my apartment. But I don’t remember anything in between. This has often been referred to as “going on autopilot.” I was locked in and engaged on getting home, I suppose, because I made it home in one piece.
After much consideration, I have three theories of what transpired in those missing 15 or 20 minutes from Tuesday night:
- I took the subway. In this case, I was probably listening to my iPod and singing along, very loudly. If this theory is correct, then I apologize to my fellow subway passengers for putting you through pure, utter hell at midnight on a weeknight.
- There’s also the possibility that I walked, and miraculously, did not get lost. I usually have an amazing sense of direction, but when you mix me with alcohol and named streets, things have a tendency to go horribly wrong. If this theory is correct, then I shall pat myself on the back.
- I took a cab. Several things must have occurred in order for this theory to hold water. I am absolutely certain that I was out of cash when I left Puck Fair, so I must have (a) gone to an ATM and (b) given the cabbie a $15 tip on a $5 cab ride, because my wallet was empty on Wednesday morning. If this theory is correct, then there was one very happy cab driver in the East Village on Tuesday night.
Whatever theory ends up being true, I’m grateful that I even got home. And I’m even more grateful that I toughed out the worst wine hangover ever.
Oh, and if anything else happened in those mysterious 20 minutes, I cannot be held responsible for anyone I maimed, raped, tortured, offended, chased, teased, or shot with my invisible gun. Blame it on the booze.