Growing Up -ish

Ir-ish

I was supposed to be born on St. Patty's Day. Wouldn't that have been ironic?

Ever since I can remember I've been told about how we - on my Dad's side - were Irish. I was told that we embraced Irish traditions. I loved the color green. I have a knack for finding four-leaved clovers that impresses just about everyone. I've found three while just walking, and one when I was running during a race at my elementary school. I embodied what it meant to be an Irish lass. So I thought.

Then I learned that the Irish loved their drink. I would see jokes of Irish yoga, and realized that alcohol was the way of the Irish. I was already participating though. I ate Bailey's ice cream before it was discontinued, and was allowed to have sips of it during festivities.

When I was in fourth grade, Dad thought it would be funny to show my brother Lars, and I a picture of our Aunt completely passed out and trashed in the backseat of her car from when she drunkenly drove home. I remember seeing her hair fanned out as her bottom half was on the seat and her top half was coiled up like someone had flung her ragdoll-style into the car. Lars laughed along with our Dad. I thought it was cool he had an iPhone that could take such clear pictures. I wanted one so I didn't have to share a phone with my brother.

Some time later my Grandmother went into the hospital. I saw her shaking horribly from what I learned were from withdraws. I learned about her favorite pass-time and how it slowly ate at her insides, until they were as black and rotten as her lungs from sixty plus years of smoking. Another skeleton came poking his uncomfortably bald head out of the basement after Grandma had to choose between drinking and safely taking her medicine - she chose the first option - in the form of my Uncle. The same basement the skeleton came out was the same one he had locked himself in for three months to try to stop being Irish.

I watched my brother on the summer of eighth grade get drunk on half a beer in the baking sun on the beach, while his friend guzzled down five without blinking. I remember feeling disappointed in him, like I expected him to show me the moral high ground.

I made my first drink at ten: I didn't know how to shake it so I thrashed my whole body from side to side, and Dad made fun of me for it.

I had my first drink at twelve: a disgusting peach margarita from a can that my Aunt gave me.

I made my first wish to be drunk with Tony so I could tell him how I felt without any fear. I always liked it when he drank when I came over that way I could talk to him. Be with him.

I received my first drunk phone call from Tony. He did this more in the future. He wanted to tell me he loved me at 1:00am. His face hung up the phone.

I got drunk for the first time at Tony's place. I was twenty. He was twenty-one, and already bordering on alcoholism. I told him I wanted to experience it, even though I was scared to the brink of crying.

        "I want to break the law before I'm old enough to do most things. I've never broken the law before." Is what I said. He made me a mixed drink of Captain Morgan spiced rum and red apple Fanta. He put one shot in my drink, and asked me if it tasted alright. It tasted like my favorite Fanta, so I nodded. I didn't really think he put any alcohol in with the soda, so I drank deeply. I started to feel warm almost immediately. My 105 lbs body couldn't handle it. I disrobed until all that remained on me was his shirt, my laced underwear, and red fuzzy socks with the pattern of a fox. He called those my Foxxy Soxxies. I went to look in the mirror I had given to him, hanging on his door, and he quickly got up from his futon to follow me.

       "I'm not half-bad." I commented, touching my top eyelids. My contacts were still in. Tony smiled and wrapped his arms around my waist.

        "I told you." He stared at me through the mirror. I took another large gulp, and Tony's eyes widened, grabbing the cup from me and taking a smaller sip.

        "This literally tastes like juice." He had sounded surprised. I took the cup back from him and took another large gulp. He balked.

        "Maybe you shouldn't be doing it that fast." I leaned around him and ate three pieces of popcorn, hardly tasting them.

        "Don't you trust me?" I shouldn't have said that, but I felt sexy. Like the girls in the movies who wear their boyfriend's clothes after sex. Empowered. I knew he had it bad for me, and I wanted to see what he would do if I showed confidence. Nauseous. The world didn't tilt like it did in those movies, but my body still wanted me to jerk everywhere. I sat down and asked him why those terrible things happened to me. I cried. Then I told him I was going to throw up and proceeded to puke in his trash can.

        "You got some clear spots in there." He had commented, peaking in to see my vomit. I batted him away. I didn't want him to see me like this. What about that confidence? Popcorn had come out of my nose, scraped up my throat, and left me with an awful aftertaste. I helped him clean out the trash can, brushed my teeth about three times, blew my nose and gagged some more, and then laid on his futon feeling how I felt in the very beginning; wanting to cry. He laid by my side after he finished off both of our drinks and held me. He asked me how I was doing in a soft voice.

        "Breaking the law hurts." Was my reply.