A while back (quite a while by now), Suldog posted some photos, including one of his teenaged self indulging in a bit of public drunkenness, under the watchful eyes of his parents. Which reminded me all too well of my own experience of First Drunkenness (this post originated as a comment I left on that post of Suldog’s; but it’s a good story, so you’d be very kind to indulge my telling it again here). . .
And I suppose I'll find out which of my kids, or VMJ's (AKA GF2, altho at the time of this story, she was still VMS), ever come around here, looking for stories from my dissolute youth. . .
I was 18, and a newly-legal consumer of alcoholic beverages, when VMS's parents took us out to dinner in Greektown (Chicago) - the waiters in skirts, the flaming cheese, "OPAA!", the whole bit. (Does it fill you with a sense of foreboding that setting the scene for my First Drunkenness involves my girlfriend's parents? Read on. . .)
They ordered a bottle of a Greek 'blush' wine called Roditys. And me being newly-legal at the time, I had a glass. And hey, it was pretty good! (Nothing at all like the Boone’s Farm that I’d snitched from my dad once upon a time.) So I had another. They ordered a second bottle, and so I had yet another glass. 'Cuz hey, it was pretty good!
After a while, I noticed that the room wasn't quite sitting still the way it was supposed to, anymore, and when one of the waiters lit the flaming cheese for another customer across the room, my "OPAA!" was louder than anyone else's at our table. So I foggily deduced that I was a sheet or two further to the wind than was best for me to be, being out to dinner with my girlfriend and her parents, and all.
So, figuring that the next thing that came out of my mouth would probably be stupid (which, looking back on it, is pretty darned self-aware for a first-time-drunk 18-year-old), I just shut up (sorta like the guy who leaves the bar at 3AM and figures he’ll escape the attention of the police by driving 12 mph all the way home) (not that I've ever done that, or anything). So I sat there, looking shitfaced, swaying gently in the breeze, saying nothing. I vaguely recall her mother leaning over to her father, saying (in her more-than-slight New Jersey accent), "I tell ya, Manny, he's drunk; we gotta get him outta here."
Maybe that has something to do with why they never became my in-laws. . .