drunk

Do you remember the last time you got drunk? I mean really shit-faced totally blotto drunk?

For me, it was a very long time ago. And I’m pretty sure I am not alone among my peers.

According to studies, and this shouldn’t be much of a surprise, on average Americans aged 70 and older get drunk much less often than younger adults. Many of us do still drink alcohol at least somewhat semi-regularly, but we are, however, the least likely population group to report binge drinking or getting drunk.

There are, of course, good reasons for that.

At our age, we know our various health conditions could be significantly impacted by alcohol, even just a little alcohol. After my heart attack a few years ago, the nutritionist at cardiac rehab told me I needed to absolutely completely stop drinking (fortunately, the less rigid and more forgiving cardiologist later told me the occasional small glass of wine wouldn’t kill me).  

We know the myriad medicines we take could badly interact with alcohol. We know we have a lower alcohol tolerance and that our new and different metabolisms mean the same amount of wine or beer or cocktails would produce higher and more dangerous blood alcohol levels than they would have at younger ages.

So, our generation is today far less likely to drink enough to actually get drunk. Which is, obviously, a good thing. And yet I think some of us—well, maybe just me—look back longingly to those younger days when we were mostly unfettered by concerns about health problems or medications or speeded-up metabolisms and could drink and drink.

Let’s be clear: I’m not defending drunkenness, then or now. But wasn’t there something appealing about those guilt-free days when we drank as much as we could? Isn’t that why we remember the night-time fun and conveniently forget those mornings after? Isn’t it why I can look back now at maybe the last time I got really, totally drunk and remember how much fun it was.

We were in Andorra, the tiny landlocked principality stuck in the Pyrenees mountains between Spain and France, where the national drink is sangria, that refreshing mixture of red wine, chopped fruit, brandy and other sweeteners. The waiter at the elegant restaurant wheeled a beverage cart to our table to make the sangria right in front of us. How did we like it, he wanted to know. Sweet or dry?

Inexperienced in such matters, we said sweet because, of course, we like sweet things. So, the waiter poured a number of different items into the ice-filled pitcher, stirred everything around and poured the sangria into our wine glasses.

At the first sip, we both knew it was much too cloyingly sweet and much too strong. But there was nothing the waiter could do to make it less sweet or strong.

My wife stopped drinking, but I powered through, ending up drinking the entire pitcher’s worth.

At the end of the meal, I could barely stand up straight. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t walk straight. I couldn’t talk straight. To get upstairs to our hotel room, my stalwart wife had to almost carry me.

Fortunately, all these years later, I don’t remember how I felt the morning after. But now, I still can recall feeling young and shit-faced and, most of all, indestructible. Particularly these days, it’s a good feeling.