I have a very dear friend who’s a recovering alcoholic, 30 years sober. She asked me why, as a person who was not alcoholic, don’t I drink? She stated, “If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I’d drink all the time!” Um, yeah, that’s what an alcoholic does.

The short answer to why I no longer drink is that once I had a couple of beers, and I misspelled a word. Yes, I misspelled while tipsy. It was mortifying.

Here’s the long version of the story.

No.7 Sis asked me to be her bridesmaid in her wedding. No Bridezilla she, we found affordable off-the-rack gowns for me and her maid of honor “T”. The dresses were peach, with a crocheted top and a flowing, jersey skirt. We also picked up some matching, inexpensive, white sandals out of a shoe store’s bargain bin.



Though we all lived in the Minneapolis/ St. Paul area, the wedding was held in our home town of Rochester. No.7 and I were staying at our Dad and Step-Mom’s new house while we were in town, and “T” was staying with her parents, also in Rochester.

The wedding went off without a hitch, but there was some time between the ceremony and the dance. Dad had the wedding party and close family back to his house for beer and snacks. I had a couple of beers on an empty stomach. Not a good idea.

When a scrapbook was sent around, with the invitation to write well wishes or words of advice for the newlyweds, I wrote something down that I’m sure was equal parts charming and pithy. And with a misspelled word. No.7 Sis immediately pointed it out and had a good laugh at my expense. As I said, mortifying.

Soon we were off to the dance. It was actually a public dance at a local hall, that my Dad had bought many entrance tickets to. There was more beer available, and I may have had one or two. My memory’s not entirely clear.

Will dance for beer.

I was about to sit down between dances, just as “T” pulled the chair away for herself. I landed on my full and generous bottom with a thud. That was the first of many falls of the evening. I got up, wiped my hands on my skirt, and found another chair.

We danced the night away, until the dance hall closed down. As we left, I lost the heel to one of my bargain sandals in the parking lot, falling into a puddle. I got up, wiped my hands on my skirt, and soldiered on.

It was too late to return to Dad’s house, so I went with “T” to her parents house. I tripped on the curb on the way in, but I picked myself up, wiped my hands on my skirt, and made it to the couch. “T” got me a little glass of water to put my contact lenses in, and I slid swiftly into unconsciousness.

I awoke many hours later to find my contacts glass was missing. “T”‘s Dad was doing the dishes in the kitchen sink. Aaargh! I sifted through all the bubbles and found one of the lenses. It would have to do.

Around noon the next day, “T” dropped me off back at my Dad’s house. He took one look at me, limping, one eye squeezed shut, with hand prints all over my ass. Dad shook his head and quietly said, “I don’t even want to know.”

And that, my friends, is when I quit drinking.

Stay tuned…

p.s. I linked this to Cozy Little House.