The Difference Between drunk and Drunk

Never underestimate how far a Drunk person will run with a stupid idea. Take last night for instance.

Had we merely been drunk, we would have laughed at the sheer idiocy of the idea on our way up to the bar for another drink. We would have remembered our motivation the next morning and laughed again, if only to ourselves, while doing active things like jogging in the park, walking along the lake, or just not still being in bed at 2pm. But we were Drunk.

In the limo on the way back from the airport - the second such ride in three hours, though reversed in direction and intention - we tried to nail down the exact moment when the lunacy began. Sometime between leaving that bar and stumbling into this one? Maybe in line for pizza slices? Before you walked into the lamp post or after? You remember walking into a lamp post, don't you?

The important thing is that we almost did it. We actually packed our bags. We remembered our passports. We phoned ahead, couldn't do it that way - their way - so we did it our way and said to hell with it and shot our vodka back like the young revolutionaries that we truly are and we humped our packs on and, dammit, we went to that 24-hour diner up the street and we dined like kings. And then, realizing that we were standing on the very cusp of the point of no return from which there really was no going back, we hailed a cab with all the gusto and emphasis that can be summoned at 4:30 am when you're holding an umbrella and water bottle full of expensive vodka.

The problem is, their way is their way because they own the planes. I'm all for sticking it to the man and fighting oppression and all that jazz, but you just can't tango with an airline when they don't want to dance. We knew that the ball that had rolled so well since that fateful moment, either pre or post lamp post waltz, would come skidding to a halt if we had to sit and wait and we fought it and begged and pleaded and almost made up a story about needing to be there to propose to a girlfriend who the more sober one of us loved passionately before she got on a flight to europe, but it was all for nought. We had to sit. We had to wait. We thought it wise to sleep for an hour. We awoke in hell.

Airports are angry, bright, cold, inhuman places. When not hustling passengers on to planes or fleecing them into parked cars, they reave souls. The sheer amount of hangover that occupied my head when I opened my eyes was enough to hammer home the utter insanity of what we were doing. Sometimes sunrise shines the giant 'you're an idiot' light onto plans that seemed so well constructed not four drinks ago. So I crawled into that washroom and I rested my head against the cool wall of the stall and I waited for the room to stop spinning and I realized that we weren't going anywhere. And I crawled back out and I grunted at my traveling companion and we stumbled into the bright morning and into the loving arms of a limo driver who brought me home to my bed.

My pack is still packed and lying by the door where I dropped it. The clothes are still strewn in a trail leading to my bed where I passed out face down. I would love to think that we learned a lesson here. At least until the next time. Please.

Oh - and to the random girl in the pizza place who solved the "buy a slice or fly to new york" debate by pushing us out the door and into a cab: go to hell.