Trying to continue my Wicked Wednesdays. I'm getting ready to attend my 25th High School Reunion this weekend, so another story from this time in my life.
Wicked Wednesdays all began with this post. I'll regale you with another night of drinking that went horribly, horribly wrong. If you are under the age of consent for wherever you live in the universe, take these as cautionary tales. If you are like me and have had your share of poor judgement moments, then we can laugh together. Yes that is a picture of me with a lampshade on my head, doing the shimmy. I will not be posting the names of my cohorts in these wanton ways, but for clarification, will identify them by an initial of their names.
In High School, one of the places I worked was Shoe Town, a shoe store in a strip mall between a luggage shop and a Rainbow Records. There was a store manager, an assistant store manager and about 5 workers. I was one of the youngest workers, and going through an Imelda Marcos phase of life, so it all worked out fine. My managers were young too - maybe 25? And as such were extremely understanding and helpful should I show up to work on a Saturday morning just a tad hung over. Through the manager, I met and had a crush on the manager from another store. He was really funny and sang karaoke. One night, he invited me to listen to his karaoke, so I hoped in my Mustang II (white with burgundy shag interior - a mini pimp car) and hauled myself out to Fremont. This is not a long drive by any means, but after ordering tequila sunrises (3), and not even being blinked at, I was feeling less able to drive myself anywhere. I didn't, but my not driving actually entailed having one of this guy's buddies drive my car, while I rode with the cute singer to another party in the South San Francisco/Burlingame area. I was drunk, and have no clue other than it wasn't too far from the San Mateo Bridge. I only passed out at the party (I think), and when I awoke at 3AM, I decided I should drive home. The San Mateo Bridge used to have a lighted center divide, and at no time were all the lights working. As a result, the skipping rhythm was nauseating to a bleary eyed teenager. I had to pull over for fresh air once I got back to this side of the bridge, and happily puked my guts out from the stress, alcohol, and acidic orange juice. I shakily and safely drove the rest of the way home, and never drank another tequila sunrise again.
Upon reflection I am grateful that this guy wasn't a scumbag, and didn't try to get laid, as I likely would have gone along with that plan. Hey, I was young, drunk and horny - don't judge...