The Don't Drink and Drive Incident

Sometimes being responsible can get you in trouble.

Three summers ago, I was feeling totally cool. I had just visited Nicaragua, just turned nineteen (one of the most epically insignificant birthdays there is), and just gotten a totally supercool boyfriend. I mean, what more could you want at such a pivotal (not) age?

Toga! Toga! Toga!

Oh yeah, all my cool older friends started turning twenty-one. Birthday parties were in full force, and this particular one was toga-themed.

So of course I pulled out my Winnie the Pooh sheets. They are an intricately detailed large map of the Hundred Acre Woods. Glorious. No other cartoon sheets can compare (I'm looking at you, Hannah Montana).

I got dear Lady Mum to help me pin and wind the sheets to something she deemed "not too slutty" (ha)! This involved me driving to the party and arriving in sheets. Most other people put their togas on once they got there, but I was sufficiently pinned in. This toga was not going anywhere.

I had a couple of drinks, by no means anything crazy, but as a wide-eyed innocent nineteen year old (the age of dreams) I was not about to drive home with even a drop of alcohol in my system. A cop could pull me over! I could go to jail! My life would be forever ruined! I got my vicious viking friend to drive me home since he lived in my neighborhood. Being responsible is great.

Getting to my room, I struggled for at least twenty minutes to unweave myself from the sheets cocoon. Finally getting myself untangled, I collapsed to sleep at roughly 3am.

At 6am, I awoke to a loud pounding. Jeez, is this a hangover? Wait. Literal, actual noise pounding on my door. I stumbled to open my bedroom door and the pounding echoed in my head. Real-life hangover. Real-life pounding.

I opened the door to an absolutely panicked Lady Mum. She frantically shouted at me:

"Oh my god R. Grace / You're okay / Did you notice anything suspicious last night / Your car is gone / Did anybody attack you / are you okay / we think someone stole your car / what happened last night"

Head. Pounding. Mother. Shouting.

"My car's at boyfriend's house. The Vicious Viking drove me home" Groan.
"But, why would he drive you home? You had your car." Cue Lady Mum not getting it.
"I... couldn't... drive. And now I need to sit down because I can't stand."
"What? Ooooh..." Cue Lady Mum getting it. "Let me get you some crackers and soda."

I sprawled on my bed, the frantic shrieks of grand theft auto: hometown edition still echoing in my throbbing head. Lil Watz peeked his head in my room.

"What's wrong with R. Grace? Is she having 'women troubles' ewww"

Thank you, lil Watz, for your excellent analysis of the situation.

Once Lady Mum returned with peanut butter crackers and ginger ale, I got a lecture. About how I had been responsible even though it was irresponsible, and I should be more responsible in the future. Or something. I wasn't listening.

All I know is, next time I come home late without my car, or with any possible situation that might insinuate kidnapping or another felony, I'm going to leave a note.