#BEDM Day 10: Kill Me Now
Most embarrassing moment.
Well it’s Friday night and I’m well-lubricated thanks to some excellent chardonnay, so why not tell you of my most embarrassing moment?
I was quite young, still at college. I had been to the birthday party of a friend, and got unexpectedly shitfaced on cheap cider. I don’t mean a bit silly, squiffy, falling-over-laughing shitfaced either. Thank God the barman was a friend of a member of my family, who offered to drive me home rather than me try to get a taxi. That state of affairs would, frankly, have had me collapsed in a puddle of sick on the streets of Rotherham for the rest of the evening. How I managed to not turn myself inside out in his car is beyond me to this day.
So I am gotten home, I crawl upstairs on my hands and knees and make it to the bathroom. I am not feeling my best. My tummy is turning cartwheels, my bladder is complaining in the strongest possible terms and my legs don’t really have a clue what is going on. But lo! The topography of my bathroom has an answer to all three of these thorny issues! The toilet is at the foot of the bath. Thus, I can have a sit-down wee, relieving my bladder and allowing my sense of balance respite from the storm; I’m also free to throw my guts up harmlessly into the bath at the same time. “Let joy be unconfined,” I thought, and put this plan into action; dropping trow, telling my bladder to stand at ease and pebbledashing the bath. It felt like a swift, fluid execution. It probably had all the natural grace of a Meccano giraffe.
This state of affairs persisted for a while, but eventually I stopped burning the wick at both ends and simply rested, too exhausted from my efforts to do anything else.
This is when my mother, who had been fully conscious of my shambolic entry into the house as well as my violent release of a stomachful of cider back into the wild, decided that she was concerned that I had stopped making noises and that she had better check to make sure I hadn’t choked on my own vomit. So she did. She checked on me in the bathroom, in which I was naked from the waist down, sitting on a toilet, resting my head on a bath that was pretty much full to the brim with sick, and incapable of the bare minimum of muscle control necessary to talk and move my arms at the same time. At the age of about 18 or so.
The small part of me that was still cogent, standing on a little promontory of brain around which a flood of cheap booze was raging like a river bursting its banks, told her to go away. Whether those signals actually made it to the rest of my body is impossible to say, but she was evidently satisfied that I hadn’t managed to inhale lumps of my own stomach lining and so that the rest of it I could sort out by myself.
The part of me stood on that footstool-sized rock of sobriety would have rather I had choked on my own sick.