There’s a fine line between a hobby and a habit. In the case of drinking, that line is usually the one a cop asks you walk to prove your sobriety. Thankfully, that’s never been an issue for me, but recent events have caused me to rethink a major part of my life. In April, I turned 33 and I began planning the birthday celebrations like any other year. Little did I know that this year would mark a turning point in my drinking career.
Everything was going fine at first—if you can call five shots of Jager in twenty minutes “fine.” Before long I was having difficulty navigating the trip to the bathroom, and my words seemed to have a lot of trouble coming out of my mouth in an understandable fashion. After copious amounts of alcohol, we made our move from Chico’s to 5th Street Distillery. About that time that things began to get a little…..hazy. And by “hazy,” I mean strange drinks I hadn’t ordered kept appearing in my hand. Thinking only of the sober children in China, I made every effort to finish each drink. Finally, I got to a point where the only acceptable answer to the question “Hey Trey Pound! Want another shot??” was “Hell no.”
I clearly remember the exact moment when things took a turn. My stomach began to make this odd, threatening gurgle, and I knew that I would very soon be returning all that alcohol to the bar. I made a half-assed attempt to stem the flow of vomit, but when Jager, vodka, beer, and something that tastes like Mike’s Hard Lemonade are all determined to exit at once, there’s no stopping it. I’m told that I managed to limit my vomit to my friend’s boots, but then he knew what he was getting into when he kept handing me drinks.
I finally emptied the tank and started trying to figure out what the next plan should be. There’s the old Puke-n-Rally: you get it out of your system, then you’re back for more. But at the (newly minted) age of 33, I had a major revelation. As I flicked a chunk of vomit from my cheek, it occurred to me that I’ve become That Guy. There I was, belligerently drunk, surrounded by people who were fetuses when I drank my first sip of beer. Talk about depressing.
Thankfully, I was surrounded by friends who’d been there before and knew how to handle the situation. They quickly moved me away from the crime scene—I was coherent enough to respond, “Hell if I know…” when one of the bouncers asked me who puked on the deck. I managed to make it out of there without getting caught/embarrassed/photographed, but the lesson was learned.
I could pontificate on how moderation is the key to safe enjoyment; I could also mention the healthy side effects that come from cutting back on one’s drinking. But anyone who knows me knows what a load of bull that would be. Instead I’ll say this: if you happen to encounter me and I’m not my usual ebullient, out-going (possibly naked) self, I’m probably not depressed or suicidal. I’m probably just sober. This might take some getting used to.
So while I might have had different idols at different times in my life, I now know that my hero--the man who has done the most to ensure my happiness and well-being; the one man who has done the most to shape me into a person of any quality; the man to whom I will always look to determine what makes a man--has always been my father. 
