It wasn’t my proudest moment when I stormed into that party, swaddled in My Little Pony pajama pants and a Dale Earnhardt Jr. sweatshirt.
But it probably won’t be my worst, either.
A junior, named Topher who looked as if he could leap tall kegs in a single bound, yelled over the ridiculously loud song that was probably about aesthetically pleasing tractors, lost hound dogs, and unfaithful first, second and third wives. “ARE YOU HERE TO PARTY!?”
Dean shot me a pleading look that begged me not to cause a scene in front of his bros.
But alas, it was 2:45 A.M. and I was at a frat party in my pajamas. So, I glowered at Topher and gesture sarcastically toward my baby blue pants. “Do I look like I’m here to party?”
The poor boy just gave me a sad, befuddled look as if I’d spilled his beer, kicked his puppy and pushed his grandma down a flight of stairs.
Luckily the reason for which this hellish night had come to fruition was not difficult to locate. My cousin, Kristin, had called a half hour before—wasted out of her mind—requesting a ride home. She probably called because I’m the only person she knows who doesn’t drink and would be sober enough to drive. She was perched on a coffee table singing along in a pitch only a recently skinned cat could appreciate. She began fighting us when Dean offered a hand to help her down and I yanked on her rumpled jean skirt to cover the secrets even Victoria wouldn’t have shared.
Kristin exclaimed that she wasn’t finished partying—stopped, looked me up and down—and said, “What are you wearing?”
I probably would have thought of some witty retort about how “this is what all the designated drivers are wearing.” but she cut me off by announcing that she was being kidnapped.
Of course no one noticed her Jerry Springer worthy Karaoke show, but the word kidnapped had all the drunkards staring as if I—My Little Pony, for goodness sake—had hatched a plan to abduct my cousin.
When we finally escorted her out to the car, she less than gracefully flopped onto the passenger seat and then gave me the strangest look.
Before I could ask her what the problem was, she vomited all over the dashboard and floor.
Sheepishly, she said “I don’t think this is my car."
Perhaps this is a sign I should take up drinking.