I woke up in the hull of a sailboat, minutes from hypothermia, covered in orange life jackets. It wouldn’t have been any stranger if I found a baby named Carlos in the bow and Mike Tyson’s tiger in the head.
Where was I?
I turned to see our friend Alec. He was asleep in the other bunk, also covered in life jackets. Peter was in the berth. Why did he get the bed? My eyeballs hurt.
My mind was racing. Peter didn’t own a boat. Alec didn’t own a boat. I’m pretty sure I didn’t own a boat.
I needed coffee. I also had to pee.
I’m a big fan of the previous evening postmortem. Usually over brunch and mimosas. Something told me I wouldn’t enjoy re-hashing this time. I thought back…
Alec was trying to hook up with some girl throwing a Halloween party at James Madison University two and a half hours away. Somehow he convinced us to wingmen the long booty call into one of the lamest costume parties ever.
Peter and I passed, but there was no way Alec was going to violate booty call’s party dress code. Alec dressed in something innocuous, like Darth Vader. His date went as Miss Universe.
Halloween is a society-sanctioned slut costume free-for-all; so when you hear that someone went as Miss Universe, it’s assumed that they wore a tight dress, crown, big hair and stripper heels.
In actuality, our Miss Universe looked like a housebound elder who resorts to, then enjoys, cat food. The girl, who clearly won the judges over during the talent competition for being crafty (and not for her second-best talent, event planning), had glued glow-in-the-dark star ceiling stickers to a blue sweatpants/sweatshirt combo.
She was so excited when we “guessed” correctly. Years of being on the beauty pageant circuit had clearly warped her sense of ego. She thought we gave a sh!t. Bless her heart.
Her guests included a gaggle of guys playing beer pong with inexplicable enthusiasm. As if the winner was going to win a lifetime supply of hand-jobs from Miss America. The real one.
That’s where it begins to unravel. Drinking. Sure. Standing and sulking. Sure. More drinking. Absolutely. Alec telling me to avoid the douche who is dressed as “The Crow” in a black duster coat. Check.
Unfortunately “The Crow” was my best option. I let him “teach” me beer pong and giggled.
Cut to black. Literally. And now I’m on a boat.
2 thoughts on “Out of my Depth – Waking up in the Potomac: Part 1”