Over the years, I’ve had a ton of friends tell me their “drunken blackout” stories. One minute they’re at the bar singing bad karaoke, and the next thing they know they’re home in their own bed, but with no idea how they got there. Or worse, they remember leaving the club with a supermodel, and wake up next to a girl who is gobbling down a case of Twinkies and has three boobs.
A good friend of mine once came with me to my parents’ cabin, and we all stayed up late drinking and yapping. He was the last man standing when the rest of us called it a night and went to bed. In the morning, we asked where he’d finally passed out, and he said he’d gone down and slept in the basement.
Which would have been fine, except that my parent’s cabin doesn’t have a basement.
Drunken blackout stories are fun, as long as no one got hurt in the making. But for all my idiocy over the years, I’ve never had one. I always remember where I was, what I did, and how I got home. . If I’m out with a friend who doesn’t remember how he ended up sleeping on his lawn in his underwear, I can usually fill in the gaps.
At least, that’s how it always been. But now that’s I’ve apparantly had my epic blackout moment, no one can fill in the gaps for me.
Sometime in the last two weeks, I must have gone on a hell of a bender. It started out in Baltimore, where I’ve lived all my life – the last decade of that life spent swimming in a sea of purple. I started out in Baltimore, surrounded by Flacco and Lewis jerseys. It must have been a good time, an adventure that makes “The Hangover” look like kindergarten naptime.
Because I woke up in Green Bay, and for the life of me I can’t remember how I got here.
All that purple has been replaced with … cheese. This place I landed looks a lot like Baltimore, but the purple birds I’m used to dodging as I make my way out in black and gold have been replaced by cheeseheads. They’re everywhere. They don’t all wear the cheese, but they let their cheeseness be known. And I’m pretty sure that tomorrow, when the Superbowl Parties get rollin’, the chunk-o-cheddar (or are they swiss?) hats will be on heads everywhere I look.
What’s weird is that people in the Green Bay I’ve landed in look a lot like the purple people I’m used to hanging out with. I could have sworn the one I had dinner with last night was my boyfriend.
Oh well, if you’re gonna have a blackout, I guess this isn’t such a bad place to land. I could have ended up surrounded by Tom Brady fanatics, and that might have made me blow chunks. I’ve gotten used to being a Steelers fan in the Purple Town of Baltimore. Adjusting to this new cheesiness shouldn’t be that much of a big deal.
After all, the Steel is mighter than the cheddar, or the swiss.