Just because you like to tie one on occasionally (read: frequently), maybe partake in the ganja, or rip cartons of cigs, it doesn’t mean you’re going to end up blowing coke off of a stripper’s implanted butt cheek anytime soon. However, the aforementioned indulgences sure do escalate the odds. That’s what a gateway drug is, and I haven’t double-checked the science but I’m willing to say that gateway drugs are essentially a foregone conclusion.
You probably aren’t buying heroin from D’Angelo Barksdale before having first had a Natty Light or two. This past weekend, I came to the realization that brunch is also a gateway drug, because I haven’t been involved in a college-style dayger – the all-day drink-a-thons that end up with everyone silently shaking their heads the next day – that didn’t start with brunch. Saturday brunches, without fail, end with the necessity to spend all day Sunday mending relationships and contemplating taking a part-time Uber job to pay for the prior day’s twelve-hour period of debauchery.
We were in rare form on Saturday. The resulting Sunday saw both my roommates almost being dumped by their respective girlfriends, one of my best friends spending the entirety of two football games apologizing for boning a girl I’d spent a fair share of time spitting game at (note to self: don’t leave a Prospect with a notorious Mr. Steal Yo Girl for the entirety of a Bruins game), a buddy who’s a 3L at Cornell jetting off back to Ithaca with (no joke) $2 to his name after spending the last of his federal aid money on cigarettes and Bud Light, and after nearly three years of having some form of facial hair, I ended up strolling into the office on Monday completely clean shaven (sidebar – my face is wicked cold).
If I didn’t indulge in a whole carafe of pineapple mimosas (which were absolute fire), I wouldn’t have indulged in the peppermint chocotini. If I didn’t have the peppermint chocotini, I wouldn’t have picked up the whiskey nips at the packie and dumped them into a Diet Coke. If I didn’t do that I wouldn’t have had the two glasses of red wine at The Roommate’s girlfriend’s apartment. Then the IPAs while flawlessly flirting and teaching The Prospect to shoot pool. Then the egregiously priced tallboys at the Bruins game. I wouldn’t have kept texting my bookie random college basketball second half unders, continuing to get absolutely fleeced. I wouldn’t have dropped my phone in the urinal while peeing. Wouldn’t have kept stealing The Prospect back from Mr. Steal Yo Girl after the B’s game when he would go to buy her drinks, dancing and trading make-out sessions before ultimately being cuckolded once more. All because I decided to eschew common sense (again) and put off the gym and GMAT studying to go to brunch.
Of course I knew what I was setting myself up for. Because brunch isn’t just going to get an Anna’s Taqueria breakfast burrito and the largest coffee Dunkin Donuts is legally allowed to give me. Brunch is an invitation to eat at a restaurant that’s always being written up by Thrillist or Boston.com and start drinking before your liver has even had a chance to fully metabolize your Friday night. Brunch is the college football tailgate for yuppies — you don’t just go back to studying after the game, and you don’t just relax on the couch or run errands after brunching. Brunch is the gateway to an adult drinking extravaganza.
I knew what I was saying yes to, and while these sophomoric weekends might be accelerating how miserable I feel the following week, I can’t say no. Because you know how the day will start – a Bloody Mary, a Mimosa – and you probably know where it ends – Sunday Scaries and regret (and maybe shame) – it’s the middle part – the pursuit of a Prospect, the laughs, the carefree attitude that makes the weekend our Mecca – that makes brunch the best gateway drug an adult can have.
As for the frozen baby face? I still make that Patriots Super Bowl shaving bet every day of the week…and especially at brunch. .
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