The time: early-autumn afternoon. Warm sun, but a chill in the air. The place: walking back to the car after meeting with some friends by the river.
Our friend, who is walking in front of us, overhears and stops. She studies the watery eyes, the intense flushing of the cheeks. There is delight and wonder in her eyes. And despite being 39 years old, this is the first time this kind of objectification—related to the physical reaction I have to alcohol—has happened to me, and I brush the whole thing off as quickly as I can by changing the subject and focusing on my kid.
The first time I drank, I mean really drank, was when I was a year-old at sixth form college. There was a lot of beer, some spirits. And as the night went on, my face went supernova. I went into the bathroom to check it out, and was shocked at the reflection. Ugly, some might say. But fuck it, right? It was a party, and as adolescents yearning for adulthood, growing up in a culture of binge drinking, this was how you had a good time: you got wasted, and then laughed about how wasted you got afterwards.
High-fives all round! The night wore on. A very bad hangover-sized headache developed, the skin on my face and neck and body went blotchy, my breathing turned into a wheeze, my heart was pumping at an alarming rate, and I was suddenly freezing despite the warmth of the house.
None of my friends said anything about my appearance—too polite, or too drunk? And then I was puking in the toilet. A surprisingly easy purging, compared to, say, food poisoning—which just plain hurts.
