A few months ago I traveled out of state to see a concert with my husband and a couple of friends. It was a pretty good country band with some prominent rock in the mix. I liked it a lot. Once we got there, we were disappointed to learn that the venue was inside. Whaaaat!? I know, and it was insanely crowded in there. The speakers were in pretty odd locations and it was louder than anyone needed it to be. What was worse is the entire place had three levels with an open center over looking the stage on the main floor. Each level was mostly cleared out for standing room. There were very few tables and almost every single one was reserved with a name on it. We had no idea you could reserve a table at a concert like this, but clearly. . . So we found one on the main floor, tucked in the corner that was fair game, no reserved sign! We were excited about it and secretly all a bit proud that our old assess were there early enough to score a table. My husband and a friend of ours were having some drinks during the concert, and I was relieved that we had all eaten a semi-large supper before the music started. This is mainly because of way too many awful experiences where my husband ended up drinking incredibly too much and just wrecked the shit out of the night and embarrassed us in front of whomever was around. Let me also add, for the record, the way I used to end up drinking like a moron and taking the night straight to hell with a hangover of regret that lasted days or more (or still). Thing is, now I’m sober. I’m in control of me and I understand what’s happening when something like this is brewing now. It scares me every time we’re in a situation where we could have a repeat offense like we have so many times. Thankfully, he was fueled by food and his cocktails went down slow this evening.

For everyone else, or what seemed like everyone, the booze was flowing. Hard. I didn’t even realize it at first because the traffic to the restrooms was light; but our lucky table find was for real about 10 feet from the bathrooms. The walkway next to our table was a sloped ramp and it turned a corner to where each door was for the men and women’s stood. This got a bit annoying after just a 1/2 hour of the band playing because not only were more and more people rolling into the venue, but I started noticing a horrific pattern of “behavior” early on. The same certain people started using the restroom just about every half hour as the night went on. This was true of a couple dozen people that I noticed anyway, and one of them stood out more than the rest. It was obvious to me that all of these repeat restroom rats were drinking lots of alcohol. This one kid I mentioned that stood out more than others, (I say kid because he was probably half my age) looked like he was having a great night the first couple of times I saw him, double-fisting some beers. He had on a flannel, cowboy boots, and a massive belt buckle. I decided to name him “Boots”. About the third time he walked past me, things started to change. He had spilled his beer all down the front of his chest and his eyes were becoming bloodshot. The next couple of times I saw him, he had even more alcohol spilled down the front of his shirt. He was trying to walk and drink his beer at the same time, bumping into the walls. I was wondering if he had friends nearby that were keeping an eye on him and hoping he was not responsible for getting himself home this night. This went on over the course of a few hours, noticing the same girls and guys, and of course, Boots . . . my concern growing for all of them each time they walked by me a little funnier and looked a little more lost. The focus bouncing from the band to the bathroom lines, constantly. The last time I saw him headed towards the bathroom, he was almost taking a step down the slope, and then taking a step backwards, as if to catch himself when he didn’t need to. When this was happening, he looked so confused trying to figure out the angle he was walking, even though I’d seen him go down it a handful of times by now. I thought about all the drunken nights I had for so many years. How many times did I look like such a fool just trying to make it to the bathroom, and why do we always have to bring our beers with us when we go? Did anyone ever watch me closely and worry about me, like I did with Boots and the others? Did people make fun of my drunken lack of motor skills and trash talk me? I think of him often and I hope he got home OK that night. I can’t help but wonder. Did he drive? If so, did he get pulled over? Did he crash and hurt of kill someone, or himself? Did he go home and wake up his parents by throwing up all over as soon as he crashed through the door? Did he end up making out with his best friends girl? Did he feel like death the next morning and promise himself that he’d never drink again like I did countless times? I wonder how many Boots in this world have had the courage to actually keep that promise to themselves. And I wonder how many Boots in this world have ruined their life after a night at a country music concert.

Looking Ahead . . .

Today on my drive home I had a ping of envy when I saw some guy standing outside of a bar smoking a cigarette. I instantly got mad at myself. It’s not an urge, or a craving. It feels more like a memory yelling at me. When I saw him, I was brought back to a specific time and place. I was outside in the warm sun, smoking and drinking. This doesn’t happen to me often, but when it does, I try to remind myself to let myself feel whatever is flaring up, and work through it. Ask myself questions and talk it out with me. What I took from this memory today, was what I was really missing was being outside in the warm sunshine. It’s strange that I recall this. In the memory, I was drinking and smoking outside in the sun. When I focus on the memory, the sunshine and being outside is the only thing I miss. (it’s cold where I am!) I think, as mental as that may sound, that it’s the best way to work out why this little pings happen from time to time. No one understands what I went through and am going through, more than myself. And at the end of the day, you, are all you got! (I’m talking to you, Boots!)