I know how you all love it when I get drunk at a club. So this time, I’ve a special treat for you!
I got drunk at a club again…
But this time, the club was in Brazil. On an island in Angra dos Reis. On a beach.
I know, it’s a tough life wearing nothing bikinis all day, drinking passionfruit caipirinhas on the water, and writing off lifting coolers full of beer as the only activity that remotely resembles “work”.
But caipirinhas and champagne were likely behind much of the malarkey that transpired during my stay in Brazil.
And that clubbing night, there was some obligatory cachaça, certainly, but there was also a shitfuckton of vodka involved. Oh lord.
What follows is the chain of events leading up to my arrival at the night club… (the times are approximate, as I am recounting all this after being in quite a state of intoxication)
9 p.m. – The group decides to go clubbing but, on my part, I decide that I was too tuckered to go out and that I should conserve my energy for New Year’s Eve festivities the following evening.
10 p.m. – Even though I’ve no intention to go out with my people, I still pour myself a *stiff* cachaça drink. Naturally. As a night cap.
11 p.m. – I pour myself another, possibly stiffer, drink while people make travel arrangements to get to and from the club.
12 a.m. – Third drink. The ladies are primping.
1 a.m. – Fourth drink. I decide that going clubbing is now a good decision. The ladies are still primping. The gentlemen are still in swim trunks.
1:05 a.m. – Slutty dress is on and some eyeliner is applied.
1:10 a.m. – The gentlemen have swapped swim trunks out for trousers.
1:15 a.m. – Shots. (Not my idea. But it was a brilliant one all the same.)
1:30 a.m. – Three sober(ish) people drive the group to the a neighboring town’s boat docks.
2:00 a.m. – While a designated haggler is tasked to negotiate carriage fees with the boat drivers, the rest of us stand around and drink more vodka. (No open container laws here!)
2:30 a.m. – I discover that getting into and out of a rocking boat whilst wearing sky high heels and a slutty dress, it’s a skill that I’d never needed until that moment. And considering how drunk I was, it’s a wonder I didn’t just fall into the ocean. Brazilian women, I tell you, they are warriors.
Here’s the thing, kids. I am too old to go clubbing. I really am. The average age of the revelers that night was 19. Maximum. At some point I tripped over a boy and girl sucking each other’s faces off, and when they came up for air, it occurred to me that even if you added up their ages, there was a decent probability that the resulting number would only barely exceed my own age.
But as we all watched the sun rise over the water from our beach club paradise, none of that mattered.
23 mosquito bites later, it was worth it.