Holiday Horror Stories: Anxiety + Alcohol = Disaster

The holiday season is upon us and I can think of, literally, zero holiday parties that haven't ended in some horribly embarrassing scenario for me. I'm what my doctor delicately refers to as a "high strung lady" and thus am filled with nearly crippling anxiety every time a holiday function involving coworkers or employers is involved. I am also a drunk. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to determine that perhaps anxious drunks shouldn't attend holiday parties --and after last year, this one does not.

Last year, a coworker of mine hosted a holiday party at Devil's Alley. It was a benefit for needy kids or something, with cheap drink specials and elf costumes abound. I showed up in red spandex leggings and a black miniskirt ready to bro down with my fave office drones and threw back one--or 5--too many Mad Elf beers.

I had also stupidly invited a guy I had--for reals--met on the street That Day to drop by the party. [There's some back story to this, but I'm sure we'll get to it some other time, I'll just fill you in on this one crucial aspect: dude was in a wheelchair and our party was on the second floor of the bar. Ok, moving on.] I stumbled downstairs and charmed him with my drunken antics which included spilling things all over myself and bluntly asking him why he was in a wheelchair. Nice.

At this point in the evening, I decided it was time to head elsewhere for more drinks--why do drunks never know when to call it quits?--and I bounded upstairs for my jacket. On the way, I joined in the Drunken Spelling Bee, had a seriously ADD moment where I just Stopped Paying Attention to what was going on, and was told to, "Spell the word, Bitch!" by some drunk dude who was anxious to get to his turn. Of course, I don't let random dudes get away with calling me "bitch" as that's reserved for all my shitty ex-boyfriends, so I screamed, no lie, "Fuck you, dude! I'm on a date with a guy in a wheelchair!" Classy, I know.

To make a long story short, I left the bar, continued drinking elsewhere, and then suddenly found myself wandering around, alone, on Delaware Ave., in a mini skirt, drunk off my ass, frantically calling my ex and trying to convince him to let my drunk ass come over. Eventually, I put myself in a cab and passed out on my mattress on the floor.

The moral of the story? Don't invite me to your holiday party. Ever.