Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***
During our winter break, freshman year in college, a few friends and I decided to take a ski trip to Julie’s mountain house. If you remember, I don’t ski (at least not well), but I was more than ready for the inevitable drinking part. We stocked up on food (i.e. pasta), beer, and one of those margarita tubs. Because we’re classy like that.
One of our nights of drinking eventually turned into a game of Kings which is either never a good idea, or always a good idea – depending on how you look at it. Once we ran out of beer, we proceeded to keep our cups full with the mix from the margarita bucket. (As an aside: I “made” the margarita bucket. And it confirms my belief that I should never be allowed to make mixed drinks in any form, as I think I added nearly double the amount of tequila necessary.)
As we neared the last of the cards, things started to fall apart. Julie bounced from the table, and we later found out that she threw up in the sink. (And by “found out” I mean, we saw it. Because the sink was then clogged.) Why did she throw up in the sink? Because the bathroom was already backed up – which is why Peter disappeared outside, to pee in the snow, leaving me, Keith, and Costa at the table to finish the game.
It’s hard to remember at this point, but I imagine that the last card must have been a waterfall. And that I was last. Keith and Costa finished their drinks, and I put mine down – with just a little bit left in the cup. Costa went to check on Julie (his then girlfriend), and Keith proceeded to “chastise” me.
“Come on, Liebchen, you have to finish that.”
“Keith, if I finish that, I’m going to vomit.“
“Just finish it. You can throw up outside.“
“I don’t have my shoes.“
“I’ll carry you.“
Always susceptible to goading, and unable to turn down such a gentlemanly offer, I agreed. He carried me, bride-over-the-threshhold style, and I carried my beverage.
I gulped down the last of it.
“How do you feel?“
I’m at least thankful that I made it over the railing and not on her deck, but, still, after I was done a neon green pool stood out nicely against the fresh white snow.
And Keith carried me through all of it. Those friends – the ones that don’t just hold your hair, but literally hold you – might actually be one in a million.