I give up drinking alcohol at the age of seventeen because it makes me nauseated, gives me a headache and makes me stumble around and embarrass myself. Most importantly, it costs a lot of money to be having all that fun.

I make the decision to be a non-drinker in 1953 the day after a New Years Eve party when I throw up onto the tops of my shoes. The next morning, suffering a humiliation-hangover, I make a solemn New Year resolution to not waste any more money on booze. To reinforce the depth of this commitment and possibly get a little help recovering from my disgrace, I wink at God and proclaim that I’m officially giving up alcohol forever in favor of soft drinks.

For the following years, whenever a waiter comes to my table to take the drink order I  pretend to consider for a moment and then say, “Oh, after last night, I think I’ll just have a Coke,”  I suffer the waiter’s raised eyebrow and sideways look that suggests I’m ordering some kind of sissy drink.

Thirteen years later I finally break my promise while trying to impress a blind date who I will eventually marry. Her name is Meredith. When she opens her apartment door, I’m greeted with a big smile crowned by short, blond hair in a lopsided Sassoon bowl cut. She laughs easily and boisterously. I like her and, as we walk to the restaurant, I’m chattering away telling stories and she’s chuckling. I’m on a roll and my best super-cool is in overdrive.

When we’re seated at our table, we open menus and she tells me she enjoys wine with dinner so I raise a finger to the waiter and say, “Waiter, bring us a bottle of Rosé.” After a half hour of rollicking conversation and clinking toasts, we empty the Rose bottle between courses of shrimp cocktail, steak and salad, Meredith points her finger at my face and says, “I think you have a bloody nose.” I dab my nostrils and see blood in the napkin. She looks again and says, “It’s not coming from your nose. It looks like it’s coming from your lip.” I dab under my nose and feel nothing, not even the pressure of my fingers. Looking into the napkin, now I see I’m bleeding pretty profusely, apparently from my upper lip. I must have tried to stuff a forkful of sirloin in my mouth in between punch lines and stabbed myself without feeling a thing. My face is completely anesthetized.

Despite a brilliant start with this pretty girl, this very promising first date seems destined to flop before dessert. Laughing heartily, the tears spilling down her cheeks, Meredith asks the waiter for a Band-Aid. I like that she takes charge. At first I think that our evening together will end up as her Monday morning water cooler story. But then she reaches across the table, and gently pastes the bandage on my upper lip, tapping its edges lightly with her fingertips. Her face is close to mine, and I can smell her scent.  It’s then that I begin to feel that maybe this brand new relationship can be saved.

Wearing a skin-colored Band-Aid mustache, I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, silently begging for an intervention from above. But, even though Meredith is still laughing, I’m pretty sure I hear God laughing too.

© 2011 Gary Gladstone