Last weekend was my 10 year college reunion from the United States Naval Academy. I love Annapolis, and I love Navy, but after last weekend, I must admit, I am over it. And I am never drinking again.
Kid Rock said it best in "Cowboy" - "Give a toast to the sun. Drink with the stars. Get thrown in the mix and tossed out of bars.” And that’s pretty much how it happened. I’m from Grosse Pointe, so I can’t quite claim to rep the same hood he raps about. But last weekend I was representing the trailer park like an extra from 8 Mile.
I am a pretty confrontational person in general. I never shy away from an argument and I’m not one to hold my tongue… for any reason. So, when a bouncer at the bar I was at started swearing at me for walking behind a restricted area, I told him I did not appreciate his tone. Confusing my general sassiness with the antics of a drunken sailor, he then proceeded to escort me from the bar. He clearly does not know. Get a white girl angry and she will write a sternly-worded-letter to the proper authorities. Get a Latina angry and she will set-your-shit-on-fire. The next time I walk in there will be to destroy it. I think that’s more than fair.
So I leave and go to a different bar but I am feeling incredibly emotional… because (!!!) I am intoxicated. To calm myself down I immediately order and down a vodka club soda. Drinking more is always a good idea. Then I become even more emotional. I run up to the bathroom, go into a stall and begin to sob. If Rosario Dawson could shed my tears she would win an Oscar and never have to make a movie about a run-away train again. My sobs are the most pathetic sounds you will ever hear anyone or anything make. Worse than a whimpering puppy. Pathetic.
A sympathetic girl in the stall next to me asks in her kindest voice, “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it a boy?”
“No! It is not a boy,” I cry. As if any boy could ever make me feel as horrible as I feel at this moment. I mean, obviously this kind of pain can only be from getting kicked out of a bar by a short, ugly, uneducated bouncer. This is the absolute worst life has to offer.
We both leave our stalls and the sweet girl happens to be the new wife of a guy I had known in college. We look at each other and say nothing. Awk-waaaard. She turns and leaves. My sobs resume.
Later that evening, I manage to get control of myself and fall completely in love with a boy I had a crush on during my days as a Midshipman. Being the vixen that I am, I get him to walk me home. So we proceed to make out in the middle of a dark street. Classy, I know. I made a mental note to buy a dog and walk it in front of his apartment until he falls in love with me too. Because that’s not weird at all.
I walk into my house (alone), armed with butterflies in my stomach and stars in my eyes. Then I find two guys laid out on the couches and another on the floor in the fetal position with his pants around his ankles. Any sober person would take pictures and a video. Instead, I kick off my shoes and fall into bed.
The next morning is just painful. My eyes are swollen from crying. My head is throbbing from drinking. My very soul is exhausted from acting like a 21 year-old. I head out the house and find a mysterious stain on the rug in place of the drunken guy with his pants around his ankles. My housemates and I will later learn that it is a $5,000 rug with papers to prove it. The owner of the house is a West Point grad. What kind of a douche bag leaves a $5,000 rug in a rental house? I don’t know how they do it in Upstate New York, but in Annapolis leaving a $5,000 anything around sailors and marines is never a good idea.
I go to brunch looking as well dressed and manicured as a homeless person. So naturally I would run into the Mrs. Old Flame from the previous night in the bar bathroom. Hot.
I honestly wish the story could end here. As if it needs to go any further…
I sober up and leave Annapolis. Obviously not having gotten enough of the city the previous 3 days, I head to Cantlers with my best friend and her husband. Not having liked my last Annapolis impression of hobo-couture, I don a super cute J-Crew dress and 4-inch peep toe heels. Fabulous, right?
We sit by the water and enjoy cold beers. The waitress comes by and tries to save herself a few seconds by recklessly reaching over my head with a tray full of Old Bay Seasoning. She trips and dumps the entire tray directly on top of me. I am frozen in shock. It's like an episode of I Love Lucy. I stand up and it is as if I have crabs in my hair. My face is red from the seasoning. My dress is smothered in crab sauce. I smell like crab. Kid Rock said he would paint the town red. Well, I did that and got myself painted red in the process.
Dress ruined, smelling like the main ingredient of she-crab soup, I head into town feeling annoyed and mischievous. I have a few more drinks (always a good idea). It starts to downpour and my friend and I wait in a corner shop while her husband gets the car.
I see two athletic handsome men who clearly go to the Naval Academy. In the sexiest voice I can manage, I say, “Hey boys, are you two Midshipman?" I'm just trying to see if I still got it with Old Bay Musk. They turn around with the look of pure joy in their eyes. They are two boys, we are two girls. They think it’s about to go down. But my friend turns them away and tells them to keep walking. Their shoulders slump a little.
And then it hits me. Karma, like me, is a bitch. Maybe I should stop laughing at homeless people, stealing candy from children, and playing with 20 year-old boys who don’t stand a chance. Because this is exactly what happened to Britney. A couple of drunken mishaps, trysts with unsuspecting boys, run-ins with Old Bay - and her career was over. If I shave my head, someone please organize an intervention.
Aside from all of the antics of that weekend, the truth is that no matter how much I love my school it is tough going back. As a brown female, that school made me feel invisible. And last weekend I was transported back in time 10 years. All of the mids, back with their Ricky-Bobby-Smokin’-Hot-Wives all seemed to fit in in a way that I never could. It is tough for me to see that. They call Academy grads "Ring Knockers." I earned my ring not with a great piece of ass, but with four years of busting my ass.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t care about fitting in. I think it’s a natural emotion and pretty common among most well adjusted people. But sometimes, you find yourself at a Rick Perry fundraiser and it’s OK not to belong. The things that made me different at the Naval Academy are some of the things that I love most about myself. So maybe in Downtown Annapolis I am an invisible girl who gets tossed out of bars and doused in Old Bay Seasoning. But outside of that town I am a fabulous woman who falls on dates and does the robot in dance clubs. I'm okay with that.
Annapolis, I love you. But honestly, you give me angina. IHTFP and will need every second of the next five years to recover for our next reunion. See you then snitches.
PS… A bottle of Malbec is not “drinking.” Just sayin.
