What Happens On New Year's Eve Never Happened

New Year's Eve probably has the highest blood alcohol level of any other night of the year, save St. Patrick's Day. That may explain why many important details remain floating in the blackhole of soggy memories. And the stack of stupid human tricks piles up like steaming dog poo.  

Last night I remained a designated diner -- enjoying the delicious repast which was spread over several rooms on heavy laden tables at the party I attended -- instead of drinking. 

I sloshed innumerable strawberries and pretzels around in the chocolate fondue fountain, gnoshed on croissants with slices of cheese, ham, roast beef, and their couture condiments, along with an assortment of Greek olives, and a variety of perfectly prepared vegetables and dips, all punctuated with the novelty of a martini glass of mashed potatoes topped with bacon and cheese .

While not drinking in a global sense, I tasted the addicting flavor of a cosmopolitan -- which should come with a surgeon general's WARNING: This delishous drinky poo will knock you on your ass before you know what hit you.

My nose lit up like Rudolph before the seductive concoction hit my stomach. I also had two sips of celebratory champagne at some point, when it was midnight in a distant time zone. "Drink up!! It's midnight somewhere!" seemed to be the evening's mantra. 

Otherwise I chose tumblers of Pellegrino over the many bottles of red and white wine, flutes of Veuve Cliquot or the after dinner scotch shots, I mean tastings, which, as I could hear from my seat in front of the fire in the living room, were accompanied by Glenn Gould on a CD, while a bunch of guys sat around telling each other interminable, inebriated jokes.

I did join the marching portion of an impromptu, and badly performed rendition of Beethoven's Ode To Joy in German, waving my glow in the dark stick like Solti conducting the Chicago Symphony. In some ways moments like these are more understandable when one is shitfaced, less so when one is sober. A willingness to participate in such performances while sober is what sets me apart from the rest. Not necessarily in a good or bad way. But definitely in a "did she do that?" way. Usually there's a delayed reaction. About ten minutes afterward, people start shaking their heads in disbelief, "Wait a minute, she was sober." 

So much is expected, even forgiven, when one is drunk. The loud laughter. The louder singing. The terrible jokes.

Ironically, the same behavior becomes cause for concern when one is sober.

They're probably still talking about me, bleary-eyed, while the bloody marys are being prepared to ease the transition from a long night to early morning.

"Was she sober?" Yeah, she was sober."She was, wasn't she?" Wow. Maybe we should have an intervention.