Drunk me never fails to mystify sober me. (Do drunk selves ever make sense to sober selves?)
A quick snapshot of things drunk Penny did/said Friday night, with commentary:
- “I just want a boy to tell me I’m pretty.” (To be fair, sober me also said this.)
- Encouraged Strapping Marine to buy me drinks. (Hey, even sober me is all about the free things.)
- Allowed said Marine to introduce me as his wife to some random chick at the bar. Why he felt the need to do this, I am a tad unclear. (While amused that a 28-year-old Marine would feel the need to hide behind my figurative skirts, sober me would have definitely taken this, along with the repeated offers to visit him in his city alllllll the way across the country, as a RED FLAG.)
- Refused another beer and asked for a pint of water (GO DRUNK ME!); was talked into a shot of whisky 15 minutes later (peer pressure is a bitch).
- Allowed Strapping Marine to pick me up outside the bar; proceeded to make out with my legs wrapped around his waist. (What can I say? I am a sucker for tall, strong men being tall and strong. Blame the romance novels/the patriarchy/alcohol.)
- Wisely refused Strapping Marine and friend’s offer to help us find our way home, hailed a cab and was home by 12:30. (GO DRUNK ME!)
- Folded and put away my scarf. (Awesome.)
- Left jeans and shirt on the floor, next to the hamper; socks made it in. (Still, mostly a fail.)
- Washed face (well done!) but didn’t brush teeth? (Grosssssssssssss.)
- Charged phone (verrrrrrrrrra nice) but didn’t set alarm? (Thank goodness the furniture delivery men called BEFORE they showed up at 7 am is all I can say.)
The only conclusion I can draw from this is that drunk me is not nearly so feminist (or logical) as sober me. Because sober me would never have been okay with Strapping Marine’s blatant macho maneuvers and conversation (grabbing my ass in combination with the patronizing nickname “Girly” would earn him a scathing set-down from sober Penny).
But damn, drunk me had a good time Friday night.
You see, Circe and I recently got a new place in a new city not too far from Aeaea. After a week of furniture shopping and assembly, Friday night was our first (and much-deserved) night out on the town.
Our wine bar dinner was an epic success. Our first bar-bar was… not so much. (Me, looking at all the couples and family groups still there from a late dinner: “I want a boy.” Mother at the table behind us: “Let me introduce you to my sons!” Commence most awkward five minutes of either Circe’s or my lives.)
Needless to say, we moved on quickly.
And… we just as quickly discovered that our new abode is not quite far enough from Aeaea. (Or Circe and I just have the questionable luck of attracting (and being attracted to) military types and academy grads.) For who should we run into
but a group of Marines in town for work, one of whom was an Aeaea Academy grad, class of All the Other Grads We Know. (Our blog friend Sarah knows exactly what I’m talking about here… They are everywhere, and they will find you.)
And thus began my night of hearing, not that I’m pretty, but that I am perfect. (I kid you not – even his “glad we met” text reminded me that I am perfect.) This is where drunk me not being a feminist gets a bit sticky: Strapping Marine would definitely think I’m less perfect if he discovered that my childhood spent on a farm doesn’t make me maternal, or that while I may own the epically awesome DeWalt Lithium Ion compact power drill, I am procrastinating putting up curtains because part of me is scared of my epically awesome DeWalt Lithium Ion compact power drill (or, more accurately, the holes it can make in my rented walls). In other words, Strapping Marine met not Penny, but a Penny under the influence of alcohol who wanted free things and a boy to tell her she’s pretty. I did grow up on a farm where I bottle-fed calves and I do own a pretty rad power drill. But both of those are only small details in my story, selected specifically for their usefulness in my current situation. What would Strapping Marine think, I wonder, of my New Yorker subscription or my preference for quiet evenings spent in a wing chair by the fire of what can only be termed Old Man Bars? (Ed. Note: He’d probably call you perfect. – Circe)
This brings me to my Philosophical Relationship Question of the Week: since our drunk selves tend to do things our sober selves would never do, should we therefore automatically rule out any potential romantic partners met while drunk since they likely have a skewed perception of our personalities?
Luckily, Strapping Marine flew back to San Diego on Saturday and will hopefully forget his five offers to pay for me to come visit. Sarah, I pass the ball to you.