We’ve all said those golden words full of empty promises: “I am never going to drink again!” Those are the six words you usually whisper up to God immediately following  a night of sloppy drunkenness and inappropriate behavior. It’s almost as if preaching that promise out loud will make everything that occurred the night before disappear. That’s never the case.

Believe it or not, I didn’t start drinking until I was twenty-two years old with the exception of two incidents:

1. The Zima I had when I was fourteen which made me think I was the coolest cat on earth.

2. The ten back to back shots of Goldschlager I had at a Christmas Party when I was sixteen.

I thought it was a smart idea to go head to head with my friend who was a three hundred pound  seasoned veteran in the alcohol consumption department. I managed to throw back ten shots of the 107 proof, bad decision in a bottle, in a matter of thirty minutes without puking.

Until…….

I was standing by the bar dancing (if you call unsteadily swaying from side to side “dancing”)  when Madonna’s Don’t Cry For me Argentina came on.  I remember a spinning disco ball followed by maroon and gold carpeting  (I remember the carpeting because that is where my face planted after I threw up on myself and toppled over). I was a hot mess! When I woke up I was taken outside, put in a friend’s tiny automobile and driven back to Staten Island to face my destiny….My Mother!

Hi Mom!

When I got home I was woken up and carried to my front door with only one shoe on my feet  (I had lost the other shoe somewhere between Madonna and the car ride home). My sober friend got my mother to open the door and explained what had happened. She then handed me off to my creator who then took me to my room and undressed me for bed. That’s when the inappropriateness occurred. Apparently I tried to slow dance with her while calling her Chad and then tried to make out with her (NOT my proudest moment). I only remember these details because the day after my drunken escapades, my mother and my dear friend took the time to retell the prior night’s happenings resulting in me getting to relive one of my not so favorite days. My favorite part of them recapping the chain of  events was my mom telling me that when I first got home I opened my mouth to speak and the flowers in the vase behind her wilted due to the high volume of alcohol that spewed out of my mouth. I was like a drunken dragon! I was impressed. After plenty of Tylenol and large amounts of orange juice I remember looking up to the ceiling (trying to get God’s attention) declaring that six word promise for the first time in my life, “I am never going to drink again!” That promise lasted more than six years because like I stated before, I didn’t drink again until I was twenty-two. Unfortunately I don’t believe it was the promise I had made to God that kept me from drinking alcohol. I think it was because I was able to taste the Goldschlager in my mouth for the following six years resulting in me staying away from what I liked to refer to as, “Liquid Satan.”

After those six years I must have taken that “Goldschlager Incident” and pushed it way back in my brain because between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-one I’ve made about forty empty promises to God swearing I would never drink again. To me a hangover is like childbirth pains. When you are experiencing the pain it is the worst feeling in the world but after some time you forget how much it hurt and you stupidly get pregnant again, restarting the vicious cycle.