Getting hammered.

I spent a quiet evening at home last night. I made myself a simple dinner, then headed off to the grocery store. I came home, let Bennet out, and settled into bed. All by about 11:30.

Within an hour and a half, all my roommates came home. With the loud, boisterous voices of people who've had a few drinks. Their chatter and banging around the upstairs and lights turned on woke me up, and I laid there waiting for them to settle so that I could go back to sleep.*

And for a moment, I was jealous. They had tried to convince me to come out, but I opted for a calm evening. In that split second of lying in bed and debating telling them to hush and knowing that it probably wouldn't do me any good, I wanted to be right there with them. Flushed and giggly.

But it lasted only a split second. And then I remembered that hangovers suck. That the attention you receive because you're drunk and bold and other people are drunk and bold is false, and lasts only as long as the buzz. That memories are best kept preserved, not lost amidst the flow of booze. And that there's so much more to life than being hammered.

I'll admit it; since moving to Texas, I have had more alcohol than in all my years prior. I allowed myself to get caught up in an atmosphere where you need to drink to have fun, where you "deserve" a drink after a long day. My approach was rather mild, but it was enough that I've been drunk several times, an experience that I had never had previously.

Over the past several months, though, I've grown restless with that way of life. I guess I'm not the person who need to stray into rebellion for years on end; a month or two was more than enough for me.

I don't really want to drink. I just don't. Alcohol holds little magic for me. I'm not sure it ever did; fitting in (though I hate to admit it) was the trigger.

Yes, at 24, I still battle with teenage-type insecurities.

But I will say this: Over the last year, I've learned that it's okay to be me. If it's okay with a glass in my hand, then it certainly ought to be okay when there's not.

I'm the girl who dances in the street (sober). Who wiggles out of her tights on the side of the road (sober) so that she can go dance in the water (sober). Who makes up words and can't get a sentence out because she's tripping over her own tongue (sober). I love (sober) game nights and spontaneous (sober) kitchen dance parties.

And I'm the girl who won't really drink from here on out. Maybe I'll have one if I accompany others to the bar. But that's all. It's more than enough.

And for the next forty days, starting Wednesday, it won't even be an issue anyway.



*I'm pretty sure my roommates don't read this; they've often made comments to the contrary. However, just in case (and as a result of past bad experiences), I'm adding a disclaimer: I'm not mad at you guys at all, so don't take this post as my passive aggressive whining. I'm just telling a story. :)