Drinking Myself Cool

. . . My studied nonchalance while illegally drinking didn’t overcome my shapeless sweaters or paralyzing nervousness around boys. But it did make me less predictable. Less good. More cool.

My first date, at 16, was also my first drunk: Yago Sangria and Mad Dog at a Grand Forks Speedway rock concert with a crush-worthy waiter from the Ramada Inn, where my parents and I were staying. It was also the first time I was grounded, for staying out inexcusably late. For usually well-behaved me, this felt like a feather in my cap, hangover and all.

My first time I nearly passed out from drinking was at 17, on the floor at a high school newspaper party after who-knows-how-many boilermakers. I overheard the sportswriter, also a football player, note with apparent admiration, “Diane sure can hold her liquor.”  Remember, I was lying on someone’s rec-room floor. But my heart soared and I’m sure I smiled. 

. . .