Is It Me?

I've had a weird set of flashbacks this week. The two women I called my "best friends," back when you ranked your friends and put serious thought into that ranking, have both re-emerged into my consciousness. It's both disturbing and delightful.

The first is my BFF from elementary school in SoGA. We were inseparable, the two nerdy girls in a school that didn't dig the nerdy. She at least had some athletic ability, whereas I was more . . . awkward. (No sniggering in the back!) Because I grew up in a small town, we had all kinds of other connections, too. We went to the same church (well, I went with her since no one in their right mind went to Mass! Papists), our parents were friends, and her mom taught me piano lessons for close to a decade.

I've never been a great musician. I enjoy music, and I can play several instruments, but I have never been excellent at any of them. Mrs. H. explained that I "lacked discipline." She is absolutely right. I have biggish mitts and long fingers and can easily reach an octave+. I have rhythm and a damn fine ear. I should rock at the piano. Sadly, this was a similar argument to the one presented by my coaches in high school: "Look at your legs, Megarita! You should be much faster!" Alas, 'tis not to be.

Mrs. H of the patience and the goodness and the ability to put up with my mediocrity died this week. It was apparently sudden and awful and cancerous. I was left wondering about the etiquette here. I haven't spoken to my little girl bestie since high school. She's gotten married and just had twins and lives far away on the S. Georgia coast, teaching at some private religious school with her new family. I guess all I can do is write and tell her good memories I have of her mom. The ones when she wasn't glaring at me for messing up 6/8 time. Sigh.

The other recent resurfacing is my high school BF. I had stopped ranking my friends at this point, but K. and I ended up doing a lot together when I moved to her town to finish high school. She (and S!) helped introduce me to a lot of things, especially music and, well, drugs and being bad. We had a lot of fun in high school. Again, both did very well in school but were far more interested in our Doc Martens and talking to the dirty boys. We were grungy. Or at least she was; I never could fully commit. Too prep, sorry.

I'm headed up to my Alma Mater (woof!) this weekend to give a paper. She lives there with her new baby and husband. Also hugely religious now. Like was in a cult for a while and now seems normal simply by comparison. We were supposed to have lunch before my conference, but she emailed me late last night to cancel. I smell a rat, but I just said I'd see her next time I'm in town.

Secretly, I might be a little glad. I love this woman, and she (and S!) kept me alive after my mom died our senior year of HS. But she's gone down a very different road than the people I talk to now. She stopped pursuing her advanced degree, did the wacky religious thing, got married, got divorced, got remarried, and now has a beautiful baby boy. It's hard to know what we'd talk about for longer than lunch.

Not much point here, was there? I guess I'm just taken aback at how these incredibly intense relationships from our youth can just evaporate. It makes me think of all the people in my life who have, quite naturally, circulated out. It's supposed to happen this way. In some cases, I'm grateful. In others, I still miss what was. Who would you love to run into today? By accident?

Two Wrongs DO Make a Right!

Or, how Megarita's semi-toxic decision making finally pays off, thereby guaranteeing a lifetime of poor decision making.

I really, really needed to stir up some trouble this week, so I called Poisonous Playmate numero uno on Thursday and said, "I'll be at your house by 9. Be ready." Away I sailed, leaving behind papers in need of grading, students in need of assistance, and various work-related responsibilities that have been, of late, leaving me in need of some serious fetal-positioned thumb-sucking.

The night started off normally enough--a few Hoegaardens (although not with an orange slice this time--the bar near my house kept serving me Blue Moons with slice of orange during the Final Four, leading my friends and I to ponder what might be the most inappropriate citrus/beer combo. I think the final choice involved a grapefruit, unsliced)--a few more, a few inadvertant cigs, and some hilarious conversations.

The best of the latter involved a bouncer who shares a name with a football team. We'll call him Raven for now. He was talking to some other friends of mine while I debated the relative worth of Venture Brothers versus Aqua Teen with a young man who had a mohawk and something to prove. At some point the big boy asked who I was and my sassy friends said, "that's Megarita. She's a doctor!" He laughed and asked, "in what?" They said, "ask her," and so he interrupted my truly compelling impression of some cartoon character or another, and I told him I worked in renaissance stuff.

His eyes got really big, and he said, "that's the hottest thing I've ever heard."

This is not the usual response to what I do, needless to say. I laughed really hard, and then we sat down to chat for a while. Turns out the boy's got brains. At one point he said, "I bet you didn't expect a guy who looks like me to have gone to an Ivy League school." He wasn't wrong. I was ashamed. After a few SoC0 and Lime shots, we were all fast friends and he had gotten on his knees to ask me to marry him. Excellent evening.

Fast forward to the next day, when I was hosting a lecture series at work. It was a brown bag, so we bring our lunches. Only I couldn't bring the bloody mary and cheeseburger I really needed. I felt as though I was going to barf the entire time. I had to resist putting my sunglasses on inside. I was not at my Megarita Best. Worse, I knew an old pal of mine was coming to stay that night. Damn. More drinking. I wasn't sure I could survive. My liver said no, but my heart said yes. (note to self: possible memoir title)

And then my bad choices somehow paid off. I answered the door to my pal, we settled in for a series of gin and tonics (and by series I mean a lot), and suddenly, my hangover was gone. Seems that the proper assortment of hors d'oeuvres and gin are actually the equivalent of a cheeseburger for curing a hangover. Even better? I feel great today. Sure, I'm not super psyched about going out to play tennis when it's in the 40s, but I'm not laid up either.

So, feeling bad from drinking? Name your cures, or take my advice and simply drink more and watch how everything works out just fine. Trust me, people. I'm a doctor.