National Tequila Day is July 24… and why I won’t be celebrating

One tequila, two tequila… uh-oh…

I discovered a colorful trail of racing stripes down the passenger side of my car one morning. The medium? What previously were the contents of my stomach. Why were they on the passenger side? My date had to drive me home in my own car. Why he didn’t have his car to drive me home in, I don’t recall. Maybe I had picked him up that night. Minor details.

One evening, sometime around the time I was still in the beginning stages of conditioning my liver for mass consumption of alcohol, I discovered that tequila and I were sworn enemies. It was only my second date with an atheist Christian-school teacher (no, really). Our first casual night out playing pool and drinking Guinness was delightful, and I was entertained by his non-beliefs, though he said it was better to teach at a private Christian school... I think his mom was the principal or something there as well.

Anyways, non-Jesus-y Jesus-school teacher (I’ve long since forgotten his name, but do remember he was really hot and polite) and I went to the Ice House for our second rendezvous (that tells you how long ago this was considering Ice House has been closed for years). There may have been a band playing. Or maybe I was meeting up with friends. To this day, the whole evening remains fuzzy.

Long story long, what I do remember is my friend Toni and her boyfriend, (now husband) Scott, were there, and they bought the Antichrist and I shots of tequila. I’d never had the stuff, but had heard the adage “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor” many times. I didn’t even make it to “three tequila” before I ran to the restroom to retch. (If Toni’s reading this, she’ll probably remember the time I puked on her shoes at Coyote Ugly, but that’s a different story.)

The tequila was like liquid death. Knowing my friends and I back in the day, it was probably also the super cheap stuff because we didn’t know any better, so that may have attributed to the impromptu mobile vomitorium I made from the restroom, to the freeway, to my house.

Somehow anything I’d ever eaten was resurfacing, and the heathen hottie was stuck driving me home in my own car.

Oh, wait! I remember now. I had picked him up for the evening because he didn’t know where the Ice House was. And we ended up back at my house because he was living with his folks temporarily (yeah, right) and bringing a drunk chick into his Christian abode was no-no for sure (they didn’t know he was atheist).

Needless to say, nothing happened. Puke-breath is always a turn off, and his good Christian morals were still intact even thought he didn’t believe in a higher power. Feeling legally dead the next morning from only a few shots of tequila to the system, I ran outside to hose off the passenger side of my car. And some of the inside of my car. Don’t cringe: You or someone you know has been there.

I drove what’s-his-face home and thanked him for taking care of my drunk ass.

I never heard from him again.

I don’t blame the guy.

But that is why I won’t be celebrating National Tequila Day on July 24. You folks with stronger stomachs go and have fun. And find someone who’ll drive you home and take care of you if you have a tendency to vomit in, on, or around objects.

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