One Friday night in February, I was invited to come out to Duvet. The following are excerpts from the e-mail, with key words highlighted in bold:
…so you know we have to party it up in the VIP…The party is at Duvet and you’re invited…Just come to the front of the line (by 1030 would be good since all the models are inviting their friends and they may get more selective w the list at 11), ask for Krystal, and tell her you’re with me. She’ll swoop you into VIP, and then it’s ON...so drop by and chill in bed with me and my friends vodka and champagne…
I get there at 10:30 with my people. The person who forwarded me the e-mail shows up at 11. I see no models. I’m not whisked into VIP. In fact, I’m still outside.
Of course, by this time, I don’t feel like going home and I wanna party. Of course, a bottle list emerges. Negotiations are made. Within 15 minutes, we’re inside with vodka on the way.
It’s now 11:30 pm. The bottles are here. And we (about 4 dudes and 4 chicks) are going through like Prohibition goes into effect at midnight. And that’s when the casualties started to set in.
One friend (we’ll call him Larry)…was sitting on a makeshift chair…and proceeded to just fall flat on his face. Smartly, he realized he was plastered and just went home.
Meanwhile, I’m walking on beds in those stupid little slippers Duvet gives you so you can walk on the beds…but because everyone ends up spilling Absolut all over the beds, your socks get all wet. To add insult to injury, I keep falling over as I try to balance myself. This is what happens when your three pregame shots of Bacardi get mixed with about four double Absolute screwdrivers, all in the span of 90 minutes.
Somehow, by the grace of God, my roommate (we’ll call him Miguel) and I realized that were in no position to do anything constructive any longer, chalked it up and went home.
I was FAST asleep, in my bed, by 1 a.m….on a Friday night…in New York…on a night when I left my house to go out at 10:15 p.m.
I was up by 10 a.m…and when I tell you no part of my body wanted to move, it’s a marked understatement.
For about five minutes, I grumbled to myself, “I hate this…why do I ever get this drunk? Why?”
Amazingly, I thought the best course of action at this point was to call someone and share this story. I gave my boy Dorian a ring. Most of the conversation went something like this:
me: I gotta stop doing this shit.
Dorian: Word, son.
me: This shit ain’t worth it.
Dorian: Yeah son.
Somehow, I managed to make my way to the fridge to get some water. Like a fool, I only drank one cup.
Then, for some reason, I figured the best remedy would be to sit on my couch and watch Oscar flicks all day. And that’s what I did. And you know something…it worked…sometime around 4:30 pm.
I had told myself I was going to cut back from alcohol for a while. Partially because it puts a hole in my pocket, and partially because I figured out that Saturday that days like that Saturday, quite frankly, suck.
Because it was late February, I knew Lent was around the corner. What better way, I thought, to take a break from liqs than to give it up for Lent? A quick check of the calendar revealed that Lent began the next Wednesday. My decision was made.
That was February 21, forty-seven days ago.
I’ve been commended, congratulated, applauded, ridiculed, made fun of, peer pressured, and everything in between. But I haven’t fallen off the wagon.
According to Protestant Christianity, Lent ends on Holy Saturday, which will arrive at midnight. How will I celebrate?
With a sip of H20…on the rocks.
– William H. Strafe
(Note: I am not on a crusade to persuade people from not drinking. Have at it. You can even do shots in front of me, I don’t care. I’m just sharing a story since so many people have asked why I’ve done what I’ve done.)