My irritatingly cheery alarm woke me from a veritable stupor this morning. After a few clumsy, heavy-eyed grasps in the vague direction of my bedside, I risked opening my eyelids a fraction to wallop the source of that infernal noise and grant myself another 10 minutes of rest. This in itself was a mammoth feat. They seemed to be welded shut to block out the winter sun forcing its rays through a sliver in the curtains. Of course my gently pounding head only acted in making matters worse, and as far as my 9am class was concerned, it was as far out of reach as the memories of the previous night. No doubt about it, this was a definite sight for sore eyes.
I had to muster all my strength to drag myself out of bed, somehow managing to dodge the haphazardly discarded attire from the night before: a scuffed heel by the foot of the bed and one by the door, my slip of a dress strewn carelessly over the lamp on my desk. I let a criminally long shower wash away my deliriousness. My mind, even the day after, usually has the concentration and focus of a goldfish. While humming to myself and deciding on what to wear, I will quite often stare at my wardrobe, forget what task I gave myself, and saunter around the flat in a confused daze. Even making coffee seemed too strenuous a task this morning, which is why I’m currently sat in Starbucks cradling a big, fat, whipped-cream topped caramel macchiato and sporting a rather chuffed expression for having bagged myself a notoriously hard to come by squishy sofa chair.
…a large glass of wine will give me an incontrollable bout of giggles.
I am unashamedly the biggest light weight I know. For those of you that mock me, it’s not all bad: I make for a very cheap night out. Having said this, I have progressed in leaps and bounds from my days as a naive and carefree first year and now realise that my alcohol tolerance will always be incomparable to my larger guy friends. On an empty stomach, a large glass of wine will give me an incontrollable bout of giggles. More and I become an unbalanced ball of energy, flap my hands about animatedly and spew out complete and utter gibberish.
It makes us bloated, tastes like pee and gives us pimples. Why is it then, that despite knowing that the next day will be frittered away in a sluggish, woolly daze, we still choose to augment our nights with alcohol? I came to University a genuine angel. Of course fresher’s week and a newly acquired camaraderie with Jack, Daniel and his friends changed all that in the blink of an eye. “Pre-sessions” were the social call before any event and much like wild animals gathering at a watering hole, students from various halls would throng towards the local pub/union with cries of “down it fresher!” much like the trumpeting of elephants.
…sometimes you need to be able to blame it on the alcohol…
I personally revel in the disarming effects alcohol bestows. I’m not the most extrovert individual, yet have no qualms in approaching an acquaintance and giving them a huge hug after a glass or two. I become less self-conscious and a whole deal more flirty (Fellow “The Big Bang Theory,” nerds, you may liken me to a female Rajesh Koothrappali). Alcohol exchanges my cloak of inhibition with that of Superwoman’s. Superpower: walking in heels. Downfall: going down stairs and slippery floors.
Whatever your outlook and reasons for the odd tipple, adolescent life, indeed student life, often needs that little alcohol induced boost to drown academic and personal stress and to evoke the extrovert from deep inside the most timid soul. It’s a given that nights out are there to escape those issues and are a chance to become carefree. If all fails and goes horribly awry, sometimes you need to be able to blame it on the alcohol: it’s one of those rare excuses that the majority of fellow students accept and can empathise with. Whether it transforms you into a coquette, complete nutcase or volatile fiend, done responsibly, there’s no harm in it. After all, even if it makes situations worse, we all need something to forget, even if just for a few hours, that life isn’t as blemish free as Clearasil promises.
Image courtesy of Jeming Way