Walk the line

Do you have a well-defined line? You know the one: your alcohol tolerance line, your own personal prime meridian, the point at which you need to call it a night or risk that shit going all Mel Gibson. It seems so far away at the beginning of cocktail hour, like some exotic place you've heard of, but doubt you'll ever visit. Then it sort of becomes a persistent glow in the distance, like the sun peeking above the horizon. Then, eventually, you realize that glow is actually the headlight of a runaway locomotive, barrelling towards you like the hijacked train in "Under Seige 2: Dark Territory", except instead of Steven Seagal and a bunch of terrorists, the train is full of bottom shelf liquor and room temperature domestic beer.

I know my line very well. And as long as I stop, even just one or two sips shy, all I'm left with after an evening of merriment is a slight headache and a desire for french fries. But sometimes, maybe I'm looking the other way, maybe I'm not wearing my glasses, and I end up careening over the line. Occasionally, I happily jump right over it, like an off-balance Hopscotcher. And that's when it happens. When the mood or the merlot strikes, I become Charles Bukowski (although with a cuter nose and better skin).

Random night out, sometime around the age of 20. The "draught wars" were trying to lure people into bars. Like we needed a reason - we were 20. Was with a group of people at an old bar in town called Alexander's. Their mascot was (and I'm not making this up) a taxidermied beaver named Alexander, who occupied a place of honour behind the bar. Admittedly, we went there quite a lot, but I don't know if that alone accounts for the photographic evidence that exists of me, behind the bar, draught-soaked grin on my face, arm draped around Alexander, who looks somewhat displeased. There is also a photo taken substantially later: I'm propped against a railing outside a favourite dance bar, and our group has grown, thanks to the addition of two guys I will always think of as The Russians. Maybe that's because they were drinking vodka. No clue. For all I know, they were from Regina.

House warming/birthday party at my downstairs neighbours. I was about 23. I remember having a great time at the party, knew a lot of people, was quite likely wearing a cute outfit, and may have been drinking the deceptively pretty Rockaberry coolers. Pretty sure the tide turned right around the time I was offered some birthday cake and declared a rather emphatic YES! by taking a large bite out of the until-then-unsullied confection. C'mon - that was like a frosting covered dare! When I opened my apartment door the next morning, my shoes were standing sentinel, graciously delivered by my hosts two floors below. Good thing, because I needed them to join friends at the local greasy spoon for breakfast. Shockingly,as it turns out, eggs benedict and the sight of desperately hung-over college kids eating sausage wasn't the cure-all I expected; I ordered, thought better of it, and left. Heaving ensued.

Sometime around 2000. Went out with friends for a drink or two. Stayed on with new friends after the first batch left for a drink or two more. One bar led to another led to more martinis led to more people I knew led to artichoke dip led to a gay bar. Everyone must decide for themselves when it's time to go home and, for me, on that night, my moment came when a couple of drag queens had to help me with my bank card. They were lovely. Their makeup was way less smudged than mine. Bitches. I remember lying on my bathroom floor, thankful for the cool tiles. One of my cats kept nuzzling my head. In retrospect, I think he may have been checking for signs of rigor mortis.

Work Christmas party a handful of years ago. I stand by my assertion that wearing a feather boa automatically makes for a better time. The party was held at a downtown hotel. Open bar at cocktail hour, plus wine at the table. I can honestly say I've never spent so little to get so drunk. My colleagues will tell you that, fairly late in the evening, I was sitting on the floor of the hotel mezzanine drinking directly from a carafe. Not true. I had a glass; the carafe was just the holding tank. Upon waking in the morning, there were feathers all over my apartment, it took much of the day to find one of my shoes, and I'd dumped the contents of my evening bag into the sink. I think one of my contacts may still be lodged in my sinuses. Fantastic time, even at hotel prices.

Charity wine tasting held at a friend's home earlier this year. Right around the time I found myself discussing anal sex with a friend, I took a moment and acknowledged I'd reached the point where nothing good could come of it. I last saw my line staggering out the door around 1:45, flipping me off and climbing into a cab. I stayed on, putting down my glass just long enough to fall backwards into the coat closet while trying to put my boots on. Cab ride home with friends was remarkably clear, in that eerily calm "I've accepted my fate" kind of way you see in television cliffhangers. Aside: Why in the hell did I buy a house on a hill? So many steps. Briefly thought, while brushing my teeth, that I would escape the wrath of Dionysus. No such luck.

Medical sidebar: are you familiar with a subconjunctival hemmorrhage? Sounds scary, but it's actually quite common, and simply means a broken blood vessel in the eye. Or, in my case, breaking pretty much all the blood vessels in my eyes. This is often caused by seemingly minor things like sneezing, coughing, strenuous exercising or pulling extreme g-forces. I can almost rule out the last two though, truth be told, there's a 40 minute window where I may have gone up with the Snowbirds. Anyway, I'm fairly positive my vessel popping was caused by the rather more pedestrian vomiting in my bathtub. Why the bathtub? Because I was leaning against it, and it seemed the path of least resistance. Honestly, I could've been leaning against the Mona Lisa, and I think things would've pretty much gone the same way. As for my eyes? Well, it'd happened maybe twice before (see: housewarming party), but I remember looking in the mirror on the way to bed on this night and thinking "Hmmm, guess it didn't happen this time". I don't know if it was a delayed reaction, or maybe I was looking at the wall beside the mirror, but it wasn't good. On the upside, for about two weeks afterwards, there was no danger of my getting shot, since there were no whites of my eyes to be seen.

Unfortunately, I had a baby shower to attend the next morning, approximately eight hours after I got home. Luckily, the mama-to-be knows her way around a corkscrew, and she thought my whole "Satan is my optometrist" predicament was hilarious. She envied my hangover. I have never felt so disgusting over something that was so much fun at the time.

I admit defeat. I ignored the line, and it brought the pain. And not just for me - people were recoiling at the grocery store. Yes, the wine guzzling proved emphatically, and painfully, that the line exists for a reason, and I ignore it at my peril. The only difference is I'm throwing up much more expensive booze than back in the draught war days.