Just a random example of something that could, in theory, happen to a lightweight. It’s certainly not an actual incident from freshman year.
On the other hand, I’ve only had two drinks so far, it’s Harper’s twenty-first birthday, and this is basically my last chance to party before diving headfirst into my senior year of college.
“Is the idea that this is what Smurfs drink when they’re on vacation?” Victoria asks, looking deep into her shot glass. “Or is this made of Smurfs?”
“This just got dark,” I say.
“You’re overthinking this,” Harper tells her. “Stop it. It’s my birthday. No thinking. Cheers!”
We clink our glasses together over the center of the table. We all shout, “Wooo!” We all drink.
The Smurf’s Vacation isn’t as bad as it looks. True, it’s so sweet I feel like a sugar bomb went off in my mouth, and yes, fake coconut and fake banana are both horrible flavors, and yeah, there’s an unappealing and stringent aftertaste, but I’ve definitely had way worse.
There are four distinct clonks as we each put our shot glasses back on the table, each of us making a noise of surprise at what we just put into our mouths.
“Smurf jizz,” Harper says.
“Stop it,” says Victoria.
“At least you waited until after we drank to say that,” I tell them.
“It was an experience,” says Victoria, taking a gulp of her Guinness.
I glance down at the floor to my right as I feel the Smurf’s Vacation start to take effect. If I was tipsy before, I’m definitely headed toward kinda drunk now, and I’m trying to calculate the best course of action to get off this barstool with my dignity intact.
Difficulty level: short-ish skirt and three-inch heeled boots.
Good thing alcohol makes me brave. I swing my legs around and hop off, and I only wobble a little bit when I land.
“Be right back,” I tell my friends, and then I head for the bathroom at the back of the bar, winding between other trivia teams and past pool tables.
The Tipsy Cavalier is… sort of a dignified dive bar, if that makes sense. Even though Marysburg is a college town, it’s far enough from campus that it’s not frequented by undergrads. It’s quieter than an undergrad bar. It’s a little bit civilized, never mind that it’s in the basement of a former warehouse that’s probably been standing since the mid-1800s.
That’s one thing about Virginia I still haven’t quite gotten used to, even though my family moved to the state seven years ago now. How old everything can be. The walls in the back of the bar, where the hall with the bathrooms are, are made of raw stone and I swear they’ve got hundred-year-old graffiti on them.
As soon as I turn the corner, I see the line.
“Crap,” I mutter to myself, stopping short.
Against the wall there are five — wait, no, six — women, all either chatting with each other or looking at their phones, all clearly waiting to use the single-stall women’s bathroom.
I sigh and get in the line, hoping I don’t miss the beginning of the next round. The woman next to me is scrolling Instagram, and I wish I hadn’t left my phone in my purse back at the table as I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I wonder what on earth the woman in the bathroom is even doing. Is she pooping? Taking a bath? Looking at Facebook on her phone?
Giving birth?
Actually, I’d cut her some slack for that last one.
Meanwhile, the men’s room? Ghost town. Every so often a guy will breeze in and then, thirty seconds later, breeze out. Like they haven’t a care in the world, which they probably haven’t, since they don’t have a bathroom line and aren’t standing in a hallway in heels with their legs crossed.
At last, a woman comes out of the bathroom. She doesn’t seem to have a newborn with her. I try not to glare as the next person in line enters, and now I’m only five people away.
In heels. Legs crossed, now a little tighter. Ghost town of a men’s room across the hallway. The girl next to me sighs and mutters “Come on,” under her breath.
And I make a slightly-drunk snap decision.
I push myself off the wall where I was leaning. I walk across the hall to the men’s room, head held high, shoulders back, determination in every step.
But still, in front of the men’s room, I pause for half a second, a shudder working its way down my spine as every molecule in my body screams no! No! Wrong door!
“Do it!” someone shouts behind me.
It’s all the encouragement I need, and I push the door open, holding my breath.
I step into the men’s room.
And then I whisper, “What the hell?”
It has a urinal and a stall. Twice as many peeing opportunities for men, while across the way, the women’s has only a toilet. No wonder they’re breezing in and out of here while we’re stuck staring at concrete walls in uncomfortable shoes.