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One of the best and also worst aspects of my personality is that I hate saying no. This lovely personality trait gets me into trouble more often than not, as I also have a hard time saying no to “one more drink” or “just one shot,” especially if it’s free.
Free drinks are one of the best parts of being a woman. It makes the 2 hours you spent getting ready worth it. It numbs the pain your feet feel after wearing slutty, strappy heels for six/ hours. Free drinks make you smile and makes your minor alcoholism a little easier on your bank account.
It’s because of my inability to say no to free drinks that I am a huge liability as a designated driver. Nowadays, this isn’t that big of a problem. You get too drunk, leave your car, uber yourself home, and figure it out in the morning. But, in 2013, it was a problem.
You may not remember the struggle of living in an uber-less city, but anyone will tell you it sucked. Drinking meant either finding someone willing to be the only sober one in a group of people getting shit-faced, or **shudder** ordering a taxi. Taxis are the worst. They’re expensive, uncomfortable, and they always take the longest possible way to your destination. In 2013, taxis were a necessary evil.
One Tuesday night in May of 2013, my girlfriends and I went out drinking downtown because we were all less than employed and had nothing better to do. Tuesdays are not typically the happenin’ nights in any city, let alone downtown San Antonio. We stumbled into a martini bar with a semi-hot bartender, and ordered three shitty, sugary, way overpriced “martinis.” I think one of my friends had a drink with whipped cream as an ingredient. That whipped cream may as well have been a bullseye for anyone with an interest in freshly minted 21-year-old girls. Needless to say, we were young and dumb and new to drinking excessively in public places.
Within 5 minutes of sitting down with our alcoholic desserts, another round appeared at our table, “courtesy of the gentlemen in the corner.” Two balding, overweight white dudes in expensive looking suits smiled and raised their glasses at us. We smiled back, which of course opened the floodgates to a barrage of more free drinks in the next two hours than my 21-year-old self could even comprehend. Martini’s, shots, drop-shots, cocktails, and even a glass of Glenfiddich neat (I’m not sure how or why, but hey it was alright) made their way to our table and were promptly chugged without any question.
With every drink, I assured my friends that I would be fine. I knew it was a lie, but maybe with a glass of water and a honey butter chicken biscuit from Whataburger I would be able to drive. Maybe. Probably not, though.
Around 1:45, I excused myself from the company of our fat, old friends in suits to call a cab.
“What are you doing?” he asked. I say “he,” because to me, they’re both interchangeable old white guys and there’s no point even giving them names because I didn’t use their names on that night and I certainly don’t see a reason to use their names now.
“I’ll be right back; I need to call a cab.”
“…because I’m too drunk to drive…”
“No, I mean, why… you can just use my limo.”
**CUE JAW DROPPING ON THE FLOOR**
He went on to explain that he is in town on business, and has a limo waiting on-call for him. He also informed us that his hotel is 4 blocks away, that he will have the limo drop them off at their hotel first and then we can have it.
I’ve never willingly left a bar so quickly in my life. My friends and I tried (and I’m sure failed miserably) to keep it cool. We walked outside and there was a big, black Escalade limo with a driver named José waiting for us. Two minutes later, we were dropping them off at their hotel, thanking them for the evening, and practically pushing them out the door of the car.
There we were, three 21-year-old girls in the back of a limo on a Tuesday night in San Antonio. It was every bit as amazing as you might think it would be, and we didn’t even have to give out our numbers or even hug our generous, bald new friends.
We stuck our heads out the window, drank the champagne in the ice bucket straight from the bottle, and blasted the radio- all to José’s chagrin, I’m sure. We were drunk on life and also drunk on the massive amounts of varying liquor we had ingested. We told José the wrong directions to my house so he would take the long way home and we could enjoy the ride a few minutes longer.
The next morning, car-less, limo-less and excruciatingly hungover, we took a taxi back to my car parked in downtown San Antonio. The cab smelled like warm milk and the A/C was barely working. The cab driver acted like he didn’t understand English and took the long way downtown, almost the exact same way I had told José to go the night before. The horrors of that taxi ride almost made the previous night’s limo ride not even worth it. Almost, but not quite. It was and still is the coolest thing that has ever happened to me because I got too drunk..
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