You're Not Special

by Meghan Rienks

  There’s not really much to explain involving drinking in the next few years. I was a pretty typical college sorority girl. Did we party more than some other people? Probably. Did we party less than others? I mean, yeah, considering Riverside was the meth capital of the world. I lightweight “dated” a guy who turned out to be a drug addict—I thought he was just stupid—and we lived next to a drug cartel. Seriously, it could have been a lot worse. I’ll spare you the pretty standard stories. To pay tribute to the rest of my (short-lived) college career, I’ll highlight some of my finest moments. Please note that I don’t say this to glamorize underage drinking, or losing control, but rather to hopefully make you feel better about your alcohol-driven embarrassments.

  1. I wore a Twister mat to an ABC (anything but clothes) party. Because I was drunk when I made the costume, I thought duct-taping it to my body was a stellar idea. At four a.m., when I finally got home and decided I no longer wanted to be in said costume, I woke up my sleeping roommate (who I had met less than a week prior) and made her cut it off my body. I’m also pretty sure I did a naked shimmy, which I don’t think she appreciated.

  2. The day after Halloween (which was a Tuesday), I woke up fully clothed (which wasn’t saying a lot, as I was an “office ho” and was wearing a bandage skirt, a blazer, and black bra) with nineteen tally marks on my stomach, the result of a drink-off I instigated with fraternity pledges. Allegedly, I won. I also fell down a flight of concrete stairs.

  3. At the time of the Jewish frat’s annual “Jew-monji” party (l’chaim), I was dating an upperclassman who lived at the frat house. I had spent the night there like I spent most nights, but this time my morning walk hit a new level of shame. I had worn a cheetah-print scarf as a top and a matching strip of fabric as a skirt. In our drunken disrobing, my skirt ripped and I was left with nothing but a left sandal and my scarf/top thing. As I began to ask him to borrow a pair of basketball shorts, he excitedly offered me something with much more of a… statement: a pair of white booty shorts that had his fraternity letters printed on the butt—“So everyone knows where you spent the night,” he explained. At that time, it was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made to me. I arrived at the dorm dining hall clad in my cheetah tube top, the groupie booty shorts, and my left sandal in hand, only to realize I had lost my keys as well. The saddest part was nobody looked twice.

  4. At a campus concert festival—accurately titled “Heat,” because Riverside thrived at a solid 109 degrees—I attended a pregame at the frat of the guy I was “dating” at the time. (Essentially, I just made out with him a lot in hopes he’d ask me to be his date to their formal in Vegas. Which he did. But then he uninvited me the night of, when I was less than enthused that he had offered our room as the “drug zone”—convenient, because he was bringing all the drugs. I know, I’m SUPER uptight.) I feared that security at the concert would be too tight for me to sneak sips of his drink once we were inside, so I decided to drink enough at the pregame to “last me all night.” I must have had at least ten shots at the frat house before somehow convincing him to buy me two Four Lokos, which I downed in a matter of seconds. By the time we arrived back on campus, I was too drunk to walk. With the boys’ arms casually wrapped around my waist, we attempted to get me in without drawing attention to my (incredibly obvious) underage inebriation. We were doing pretty well (I was told) until I dropped my student ID. As the gentlemanly police officer bent down to pick it up, I vomited in his face. I’m really not sure how we still got in, but we did. A rapper performed. I have no memory of it. I also have no memory of rolling into a ditch, hiding in the bushes, getting kicked out of the concert, being carried to my room, falling asleep with my clothes on, sleeping through the fire alarm, or punching my roommate in the face when she insisted I evacuate with the rest of the building. I woke up the next morning in a pool of my own vomit and a very angry roommate.

  I’d like to take this time to formally apologize (again) to my roommate Ava. Ava, you were way too good to me. I didn’t deserve you.

  You’re probably expecting me to have this earth-shattering story or revelation that completely changed the way I looked at alcohol. But the truth is, the only reason I cut back on partying my sophomore year was because my college “best friends” decided to exile me and I didn’t have anyone to hang out with. I was underage, so drinking alone wasn’t really an option. It’s not that I was anti-drinking; it was that my former friends were anti-Meghan. I went out occasionally with a few girls who still acknowledged my presence, and of course I went to house parties back in my hometown, but I didn’t drink nearly as often or as much as I had before. That false confidence of my drunk persona had been completely shattered. I constantly felt like I was walking on eggshells, holding on to people who wanted nothing more than to see me fall. I dropped out of college and moved to LA a few months later, and I found myself in a somewhat similar situation.

  Over the next two years I slowly lost touch with the girl I used to be. As hard as I tried to hold on to the friends I’d made in LA, it became abundantly clear that I was the only one invested. I threw myself into work and auditions and absolutely anything to distract me from the fact that I was basically completely alone in the city. I had no intention of cleaning up my act. Honestly, I would have killed to get trashed at some party full of twentysomething Vine stars. But it’s pretty hard to get invited to parties when the friendliest person you interact with is the cashier at Target.

  As somebody who suffers from generalized social anxiety, I viewed alcohol as a crutch to compensate for my nerves. I’m not going to lie and say that it doesn’t work, because it does. Alcohol makes you more comfortable and at ease, and there’s really nothing wrong with that unless there is. I believe lots of people can maintain a healthy relationship with alcohol. I am just not one of those people. In my mid-twenties, most of my peers spend their Monday nights watching The Bachelor and drinking wine, their Thursdays at happy hour, and their weekends at bottomless brunch. And they’re fine; I’m not. Would events and parties be easier with a drink in my hand? Yeah! But it’s a temporary Band-Aid to a bigger psychological problem. Instead of using alcohol to cope with my insecurities and anxiety, I go to therapy. And I’m saving myself quite the hangover—maybe an emotional one, but at least I’m not barfing. Who knows, maybe down the road my stomach will be able to handle it and my therapy will have paid off and I can learn how to enjoy a glass of wine. Just don’t let me be one of those Etsy “It’s wine o’clock” kitschy people.

  While my party girl days are behind me, I still look back on that era with a mix of nostalgia, embarrassment, and a longing to have done it a little better. If I could go back in time to the night Sydney, Emma, and I sat on the shower floor with the bottle of Smirnoff, I wouldn’t pass on the shot or pledge sobriety for life. That desire to experiment is natural. I’m not going to tell you not to drink. That’s not realistic. Instead, here’s the advice you’re more likely to take.

  1. Drink smarter, not harder. Be strategic with your alcohol consumption rather than just going fucking ham. A shot has the highest percentage of alcohol and it’s also the smallest amount of liquid and the thing you can drink the quickest. A beer has a lower percentage of alcohol and it’s going to take you a while to drink. So if your friends are drinking beer and you’re pounding shots, you’re only going to be able to keep that up until everything comes back up. I mean vomit. Take it from a girl who exclusively drank shots: Save them for birthdays, spring breaks in Mexico, and weddings of people you hate. Mixed drinks will not only (hopefully) have something in them that’ll hydrate you, they also come with teeny-tiny straws that take forever to drink out of. Actually, don’t use those. Save the turtles! Plus, if you have a drink in your hand, it prevents you from doing a two-handed fist pump (always a bad idea) and it gives you an automatic out if some creep starts pressuring you to participate in an ice luge shot.

  2. Mixed drinks are great. Mixing your alcohol is not. Beer before liquor, never sicker
; liquor before beer, in the clear. That’s the phrase, and it doesn’t just roll off the tongue—it’s also true. Choose a drink and stick to it all night. If you’re too noncommittal for that, at least stick to the same alcohol or in the same color family. Which brings me to:

  3. Find your signature. Drink, that is. Find a drink that doesn’t taste like nail polish remover, one you can confidently order at a bar and that you’re familiar enough with that you can gauge the outcome of your night based on your consumption.

  4. SpongeBob needs water and you do too. Alternate between one alcoholic beverage and one glass of water through the night. Booze is a diuretic, and the hangover you’ll experience the next morning is mostly due to the dehydration from the alcohol. HYDRATE AS IT HAPPENS! Not only is it going to make your morning much more pleasant, it’s also going to keep you from drinking too fast. It takes twenty minutes for a drink to hit your system, so sip on some water before you decide you need the next one.

  5. Work on your tolerance. I have no idea why we think we sound cool as fuck when we brag about how much alcohol we can drink or how much it takes us to get drunk. Like, okay, congratulations, you had to ingest three bottles’ worth of white wine to get a buzz and I’m over here four sips deep and pretty tipsy? Who is winning here?!?! I get it—the more you drink, the more of a tolerance you build up. But I mean, it’s like getting antibiotics: you don’t want your body to get too used to them and build up a tolerance. That’s how the Black Death happened, right? (I don’t know; I went to alternative learning.) Now, if you’re drinking a lot, no shade. I mean, have you read this chapter? Naturally, in doing so, your tolerance will increase and it’ll take you more and more to feel the buzz. To prevent building a tolerance so high it requires stomach pumping, take breaks or “dry spells” from drinking whenever it’s taking you a lot to get drunk. This was our shit in college. If we didn’t drink for two weeks before winter formal, not only would we not look bloated for the first time since orientation, we’d also need way less to feel it. (Also, if you stop wearing makeup and only wear laundry day clothes the week before, when you show up to the event looking fucking amazing, you’ll look even better, because everyone was so used to seeing you look like a troll all week. You’re welcome.)

  6. Don’t get cross faded. The first time I did, I hooked up with a freshman… when I was a senior. The second time, I woke up in the bed of a guy I had never met before, fourteen miles away from where I lived. Nothing good comes out of getting cross faded, trust me. Weed + booze = bad. On the other hand, I actually know a ton of people who can handle this fine. Maybe I’m just jealous.

  7. Everclear is not your friend. It sounds like a winter-fresh mint, right? WRONG. I honestly have no idea what Everclear even is, but I drank it (do as I say, not as I do) and the rest of the night is a mystery to me. On the bright(ish) side, my friend also hard-core blacked out, so neither of us could blackmail the other on the embarrassing shit we did. Ignorance really can be bliss. Also absinthe—stay away from that shit.

  8. Watch your drink. Watch it like a goddamn mother of a newborn. Do not let that shit leave your sight. Date rape drugs are a real thing, not just a plot twist in a Law & Order: SVU episode. One of the first nights of my freshman year I was roofied. One second I was at a house party dancing with some guy, and the next I was waking up in my dorm room. I had no clue what had happened and I was too embarrassed (I shouldn’t have been) to ask anyone. I didn’t find out, but you can be sure as shit I never left my drink unattended there again. You wouldn’t take candy from a stranger as a kid, so why the hell are you taking “tequila” from a guy who’s wearing three polos and cargo shorts?

  Only take drinks made by people you trust, and watch them like the stingy guac guy at Chipotle. Or, better yet, be the self-sufficient boss-ass bitch that you are and make your own drinks! Not only will it guarantee that you’ll be drinking your favorite drink all night, but it’s highly unlikely that you’re gonna slip some ketamine in your own cocktail. Unless you do, in which case I’d suggest maybe working on a more robust schedule of extracurriculars, because that just seems a little extreme. Take up knitting.

  9. Drunchie. This is how twenty-four-hour Mexican restaurants stay in business. I have no shame in saying that my favorite part of going out was, hands down, stopping at the drive-through on the ride back. We’d be getting ready to go out and in the middle of applying winged eyeliner I’d already be thinking about what I was going to drunkenly snack on when I got home. I am a firm believer in this process. In combination with a substantial meal prior to drinking (seriously, do it, otherwise you will get chlamydia and die—not really; you’ll just get really sick), finishing your night with a midnight snack isn’t just satisfying, I’m pretty convinced it helps the hangover the next morning. I’m not going to lie to you and pretend my high school drunchies weren’t entire Baskin-Robbins sheet cakes and microwaved quesadillas, and my college ones weren’t Carl’s Jr. fries and questionably lukewarm chicken wings. None of the above was even worth it, because chances are I was too drunk to remember or enjoy ingesting them. Save your P.F. Chang’s leftovers and the expensive ice cream for when you’re coherent enough to enjoy it. Drunchies are the time to clean out your fridge—the ends of bread, stale cereal, and your least favorite yogurt flavors.

  I hope this chapter taught you something, or enlightened you, or at least didn’t make you regret buying this book for anyone under twenty-one. I could say something inspirational and all-encompassing here, but I just admitted that I slept in a pile of my own vomit, so I’ve got some more self-reflecting to do before I start spewing motivational quotes. I’ll just leave you again with the image of somebody extracting my lacy pink Victoria’s Secret thong from a VCR player. You’re welcome. Also, please tell me you know what a VCR player is.

  chapter 13 10 ways to trick people into thinking you have your shit together

  You know those people you see at the airport who aren’t struggling to pull their laptop out of their bag, and despite that they’re wearing a sun hat, they don’t have hat hair? They lift their luggage into the overhead compartment with no struggle or forced help from the Dennis Quaid dad type behind them. You just look at them with envy and realize that, while you can vote and buy a lottery ticket and do various “adult” things, you are just a big fat fibber. That person is an adult. You are a giant kid with responsibilities. I am also not sure why this is so aviation-specific.

  I don’t have my shit together by any means. I have a cavity that is starting to resemble the Grand Canyon and I haven’t gotten my roots done in months. Sometimes I eat popcorn for dinner and my gas tank is literally never full. To the outside world I’ve got this whole “adulting” thing mastered. In reality the only thing I’ve mastered is the illusion that I have any idea what I’m doing. It’s like science. Except not at all.

  1. Braid your hair.

  This probably sounds like the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, right? WRONG! I have said much dumber things. (One time I asked my mom, “When is the Fourth of July?”) Seriously, though, have you ever looked at someone with a meticulously braided updo and thought to yourself, They look like somebody who evades their taxes and skips leg day. NO! You think, I bet she pays her phone bill on time and reads books for fun. Also, just washing it counts too.

  2. Do your nails.

  We humans are judgy creatures. As much as I would like to say that the first thing I notice about someone is their dazzling personality or their radiating aura, the reality is I’m looking at your fingernails. Actually I’m not, but for argument’s sake, let’s say I am. Are your cuticles trimmed? Are your nails filed and clean? Are they perfectly glossy and chip-free? If they are, I have now automatically assumed that you’re great at time management, get your hair trimmed regularly, and don’t spend an unhealthy amount of money online shopping. And I’m not the only person who sees it this way. As Abraham Lincoln famously once said, “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the polish on your
fingernails.” Okay, I’m lying. Lincoln didn’t say that, but it’s probably just because he had bigger problems to worry about. If you’re Abraham Lincoln, you can pass on this one.

  3. Use reusable grocery bags.

  Not only are you saving the earth with this one, but now you no longer have to envy those moms at Whole Foods who delicately place produce in their wicker totes as they side-eye your choice of plastic bags. As though you were standing at the register, screaming, “The world is on fire and I don’t believe in global warming!”

  With this one simple shopping accessory you’ve now created the illusion that all your recipes come from Pinterest and Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop. In reality, the only thing you buy from the grocery store is toilet paper and ranch dressing to dip your Domino’s pizza in. Also recycle—not because it makes you look like you have your shit together, but because you’re not a fucking garbage human.

  4. Buy a bed frame.

  This only really applies when you invite people over to where you live, but I cannot stress the importance of it enough. If your mattress is just chillin’ on the floor, I am automatically going to assume that you’ve never washed your sheets, that Nickelback is your favorite band, and that you consider Olive Garden a romantic first date. If you have a bed frame and maybe even a dresser (whoa, dream big), I’m already forgetting how boring you are. I’m halfway to picking out our future babies’ names. Or at least halfway undressed.

  5. Expand your vocabulary.

  I wouldn’t necessarily suggest investing in a word-a-day calendar unless you want to come across as more pretentious than Holden Caulfield. Or like when Joey gets the “V” volume of the encyclopedia on Friends. Occasionally use words like “anomaly,” “brusque,” “dichotomy,” and “euphemism.” You may notice that I listed those alphabetically, because that’s how they came up when I googled “words that make you sound smart.” Hey, I’m working on this one too.