Last night I went out with my husband and five of his colleagues. I was a bit leery of going since the wives of the others bowed out, but it isn't like I can't be social unless other doctor's wives are there. I'm not going to be one of those women.
Aside from a McCarthian fear of losing my American citizenship by fraternizing with two Communists and a general trepidation of eating at a Cretan restaurant filled with people who were all obviously part of the "family", passing along secret messages in some sort of freakish Cretan sign language that must have been something along the lines of "we must kill the American!"* I had a good time. The only real problem was the fact that these five psychiatric residents can hold their liquor (and apparently, so can my husband). So when the Cretan of the group asked me if I wanted to try some ρακή (raki - a Cretan liquor that resembles moonshine but in its marketed form is only about 50% alcohol) I said sure. Because we all know you can't say no to a Cretan any more than you can say no to a Sicilian. Considering I almost never drink alcohol of any kind anymore - no wine, no beer, no nothing - this was a bit of a stretch for me. I managed two and a half shots of the stuff before I was two sheets to the wind and feeling pretty damn proud of myself.
That is, I felt proud of myself until about 5am, when my stomach and my head conspired against me, surely punishing me for a night spent with Cretans and Communists.
Now I remember why I don't drink anymore. Ah, to be young again, when it took at least five very strong Long Island Iced Teas before I puked off the front porch right in front of the pizza delivery guy. And now I can't even handle two and a half shots of ρακή. Poor me.
*Seriously, I'm just joking about Cretans. Sure, they have a reputation of being the mob bosses of Greece and yea, so they do scare me just a bit. But they are also interesting people with fiery spirits, great food, and wonderful music.