iris independent

So, this story is going to make me sound like I have a drinking problem, but I promise that I don’t.

A friend from college texted a couple of weekends ago, wondering if I’d like to meet up with him and a few friends way up on East 93rd street. It was already nearing 10, but who can resist a college reunion? Not this girl.

So, the pajamas that had promised me a quiet Friday night were cast off in favor of my newest pair of skinny jeans as I hurriedly put my make-up back on and fast-walked down the stairs to catch a cab.

This venue hearkened back to the townie bars of nights spent in my small college town: a scattering of round, wooden tables, inexpensive (relatively so, at least) drinks, and a friendly bartender who pours ‘em far too strong for anyone’s good.

Love it.

It was the Friday before a long weekend. I already had a raging party in my mind at the thought of three whole days without school. This mental state is never a good one going into a night of drinking.

College friend insisted on a round of shots in honor of the “good old days” … apparently, that one shot was all I needed. I truly didn’t have much more to drink, but before I knew it?

I was alone with a random guy squinting at a jukebox, carefully choosing songs together with the scrutiny of a couple choosing items for our wedding registry.

(He was a compromiser, that one.)

And… the next thing I know, it’s morning. I’m in bed. By myself.

Um, what? I have had just one other blackout experience. And I completely blame that on college. It had made total sense for my friend to help me  “pregame” by bringing vodka in a to-go coffee mug to my on-campus job as the college switchboard girl.

I had to search frantically for clues. I mean, this was not cool. I am NOT in college anymore. I’m an adult of 28 - far too old to be having these experiences. It’s also a big, unpredictable freakin’ city, for the love.

I had my jukebox lifepartner’s phone number in my cell, but decided against it. I’m probably overreacting, I told myself.

Finally, while digging in my purse for the millionth time, I found the cab receipt.

Okay,

I sighed.

A cab. I took a cab home. That’s good news.

Looking closer, the receipt gave my confirmation that - not only had I cabbed it home - but I was more than likely alone. For what kind of tip did I leave the driver? First, understand this:

In NYC, you have a choice of three buttons /tips on a touchscreen when you pay with a credit card:

10%

15%

20%.

Somehow? I managed to manuever my way out of all of the above to leave the definitely-alone and definitely-not-sober tip of 93 cents.

I may have snubbed the cab driver, but I made it home safely.

Sometimes one needs to relearn a few of the lessons from early 20s. That, I’ve decided, might be what the late twenties are for.

But to a lesser degree. And met with more embarrassment.