Fat Tuesday=Hungover Ash Wednesday

I don’t know when I will learn the lesson that I cannot and should not drink tequila. I often think that if said tequila is masked in a pretty little frozen drink, such as a margarita, it will not have the same horrible effect on me as taking shots of it. Yet, every time I test this little theory of mine, I am proven horribly, horribly wrong.

As some of you may know, yesterday was Fat Tuesday, which, correct me if I am wrong, is some pagan ritual where you over indulge one last time before you give up your sins on Ash Wednesday. I think the idea is to participate in whatever activity you are giving up in the most insane way. I am not catholic, and I do not participate in Ash Wednesday, but I may be pagan, and seem to have no issue in taking part in the debacle that tends to go down on Fat Tuesday. So, this leads me to tequila. The devils drink. The bane of my entire existence and this very moment in time.

After a particularly stressful day at work, a colleague of mine and I decided we would go to a local Mexican joint to indulge ourselves in some libations. At the time, a pitcher or two of margaritas seemed just the ticket to forgetting about our troubles for a while. And you know what? At the time, it really was. We drank and ate and talked about all sorts of pertinent world issues. And, minus the occasionally brain freeze from drinking something really cold way too quick, the night was going swimmingly. Then, I got up to go to the bathroom, and the tequila hit me. I realized that I was way more drunk than I thought I was. I returned from the bathroom and had a couple of more margaritas, and then knew it was time to go.

When I got home, I put on the stereo and passed out. When I awoke a few hours later, fully clothed, my mouth was drier than the Sahara. My head was pounding and I felt like I had been socked in the chest repeatedly. I stumbled to the kitchen and began rummaging around in the fridge to find something, anything, to quench my thirst. I chugged a bottle of water, but it brought me little relief. With no more water, and an imminent fear of DC tap water, I decided to chug the half a liter of Coke that was sitting in my fridge. BAD IDEA. Needless to say, with all of that caffeine surging through my body, my sleep for the rest of the night was somewhat less than restful. I tossed and turned and had to get up to pee what felt like a trillion times. Morning came, way sooner than I would have hoped, and luckily, I was awoken by the sunlight and not my horribly loud and annoying alarm. I laid in bed for a while debating whether or not to go to work (I am leaving my company in April, which has definitely changed my work ethic), but finally decided I wasn’t going to let the tequila beat me. So, I dragged my ass out of bed, got in the shower, ate a crapload of tums, and headed here, to the office, where I sit now writing this diatribe.

The thing is, every single time I drink tequila, it has similar effects on me. I can drink vodka, whisky, gin, rum, beer, wine, champagne (you get the idea) and none of those substances do to me the things that tequila does. Which is why, today, on Ash Wednesday, I am giving up tequila. I may not be a catholic, but I know a good idea when I see one.