I‘m not gonna lie – I messed up this weekend. – Pretty bad.  So long as we have that out in the open right up front, we can continue. 

[Deep breath]

 

This weekend my alma mater, Boston College, hosted its biggest college football game in years (hang in there – this is not about sports).  The #17 BC Eagles took on the #8 Florida State Seminoles in their first ACC game.  The game was so big that ESPN‘s “College Game Day“ was broadcasting for the first time ever from BC‘s campus.  Huge, huge deal.

The campus, students, and alumni were in a frenzy over this game.  My college buddies had been talking about it since the schedule was announced, and everyone was psyched for it.  Pretty much everyone I knew from college was going up to Boston for the game, not necessarily to watch it, but to tailgate for it.

 

I never cared for BC sports, and I still don‘t.  But I do care about tailgating.  Few memories of my college experience were as sweet as those days when I woke up on a Saturday morning, cracked open a Natty Light, and one hour later I was standing among cars and grills on my third hot dog, thinking about doing terrible, mostly illegal things to every girl in sight.  Though I had season tickets to BC‘s football games every year I was there, I went to a grand total of two games (and I went into one game only because I was looking for a fight).  The majority of the time, I preferred to stay out in the large field that on football game days doubled as a parking lot, drinking beer, eating meats, and getting Tostitos crumbs in my beard and/or eyes.

 

But after graduation, tailgating developed into a mini reunion.  Though never explicitly planned out, it seemed like every graduate looked at the schedule, picked the biggest game, and made the journey to Boston to hang out with old college peeps.  This year, Florida State was that game.

 

And this year, I finally had something to say to all the women who rejected me in college when they asked what I was up to.  In years past, the whole, “So what are you doing now, Jason?“ question was answered with one of a few stock answers, like

 

• “I live in New York City.  The McDonald‘s there delivers 24 hours a day.“
• “I work for a law firm, but probably not for too much longer.  Long story short, I killed a judge.“
• “I live in New York.  I drink about sixty beers a week and there are times when I‘d kill my little sister to relive one weekend of college.  You?  Wait, you‘re the one with the gay dad, right?“

But some things have happened since I last tailgated at BC, namely me being named one of the 50 hottest men in the world by a magazine with a circulation of 3.7 million and a readership of over 30 million (ahem, cough).  And there’s also the matter of the huge major announcement which I have yet to reveal here because I‘m afraid of getting sued but which I can tell and have told people in person.

 

So this game was the moment of a lifetime for me.  A big game blah-blah-blah-sports-sports-sports, but more importantly, a chance to tell all the girls in college who knew me as “that weird guy with the beard from D-53 who Sally Barnes caught masturbating in the elevator“ that I am finally, FINALLY, a success.  At least in terms of internet popularity.

 

But there‘s just one problem: I didn’t go to the game.  Because I had a wedding.

 

You see, I am trying to make my friend Abby my special lady.  Because I have no “game“ and can only offer a woman my undying love and an uncanny ability to commit acts of vandalism, I am struggling with this.  So in lieu of properly courting Abby, I am going to weddings with her.  I figure that if I can prove to her that I can handle an open bar without doing anything damage to myself, others, or any nearby animals, she should immediately fall for me.

 

The last time we went to a wedding, I got high with the wedding photographer.  That was not good.  However, the post I wrote about that wedding wound up in the pages of “People“.  That was good. 

 

However, I had committed to going with Abby to this wedding before I realized when it was.  I jumped at the chance of an open bar and a hotel room in another state with a purdy lady without making sure my calendar was open.

 

(Because, really, when is my calendar not open?  “Sorry Abby, I can‘t go to the wedding with you – I checked my date book and it looks like I have plans to get drunk and masturbate in a Blockbuster Video that night.  Maybe some other time.“)

 

There was no way of getting out of it, so I went with Abby and was determined to make the best of it.  And I did.  For a while.

 

Before I continue, I should say that the wedding was lovely.  The bride and groom had excellent taste in music, and the father of the bride wrote a song for his father-bride dance.  Normally, I am against this sort of thing – if you‘re in a band, unless it is called Phish or Blur or The White Stripes, please don‘t play your original music at your wedding because all the guests will make fun of you for it – but there was not a dry eye in the house when that song and dance was over.  Just a gorgeous moment.

 

But I didn‘t really know anyone.  And I didn‘t want to hold Abby back from having a good time, so I encouraged her to go dance with her friends.  And there was an open bar.  So that‘s where I hung out.

 

Then the text messages started rolling in.  As I sat by myself at the table, drinking vodka tonics two at a time, my friends starting sending me messages, telling me what a great time they were having in Boston at the game.  They were doing this intentionally; they knew I was sore about the wedding and they were rubbing it in.  Bunch of a-holes.

 

So I sat there and got drunker and drunker and angrier and angrier.  Eventually, I stopped answering my messages and instead focused all of my energy on a lovely lil‘ creature sitting at the table next to me.

 

I don‘t know why it took me so long to find this girl, because she was extremely attractive.  Just my type: tallish, blonde, boozing, and most importantly, boobalicious.  Beautifully breasted.  Ample, tan cans that left me wondering: real or no?  (I decided no)

 

And so if I noticed her on my fifth drink, I was in love by my seventh drink.  But somewhere around drink nine, trouble came.  And fucked me up.

 

I noticed that the girl was with a guy.  You might expect that she was with a frat guy/lacrosse player who now works in sales for a company that sells semiconductor wiring.  Truth be told, I wish she was with a guy like that.  At least I would have seen it coming and had the appropriate reaction (“I wonder if she realizes that in twenty years she‘ll be watching him dip and say things like, “Damn – look at all the talent at this wedding!“ in between reminiscing about the pranks he and his teammates played on their old coach.“) 

 

Instead, she was with an older guy.  Not a few years older – considerably older.  If I had to guess, I’d say he was about 48.  I‘d also say, judging from his accent and the way he traipsed around the dance floor with her, he was European.  Most likely Adriatic.  I would also guess, judging from the jewelry, that he was very wealthy.  And knowing that this sexy lil‘ thing was with this guy made me totally fucking sick.

 

In retrospect, with judgment unclouded by cheap vodka, I know I wasn’t in love with this girl.  I was drunk and angry and looking for some action.  And I know I have no right to judge the love of others.  What if he was a really nice guy – a doctor who helps orphans or kids with no arms or some shit – and he deserved her like I deserve a fucking break.  I know this, and this is why I repent to you.  But at the time, I knew only one thing: FUCK THAT.

 

So I sat there, watching and stewing.  Occasionally, Abby, bless her heart, would come over to sit with me, get me a drink, talk to me, etc.  But by then I was past the point of no return.  I assured her I was fine and told her to go have fun.  And I drank.  And I fumed.

 

More songs, more dancing, and then finally, my blond girl got up and walked around her table, making the rounds before leaving.  In doing so, she turned around to survey the room and our eyes met – only for a second.  But when they did meet, for some strange and incredible reason, I said, loud enough for her to perfectly hear, “Make sure your dad gets you home safe.“

 

“Make sure your dad gets you home safe.“ (Of course, the man was not her father but her lover, and I said this to instigate her.)  I have NO IDEA where this came from.  I can say for sure that I didn‘t plan it, but that‘s all I know.  Though I‘m typically a bit hostile and a bit lusty when drunk, I like to think that on most occasions I can say to myself, “Hey, don‘t ruin this wedding by doing something stupid.“  But it didn‘t happen on this night.

 

After the words came out, she gave me a shocked look and I immediately felt sorry for saying them.  The guy she was saying goodbye to, her friend around my age, gave an equally shocked expression.  The girl then looked to her man, who had made his way around the table to her side.  She whispered to him, and he looked over at me and said only, “You know what?  You’re a real jerk.“  He put his arm around his girl and they walked toward the exit, while the rest of their table stared at me.

 

And it killed me.  The whole situation killed me, but especially the way he called me a jerk.  It would have been fine if he had said it antagonistically.  In a way, that would have justified my feeling that he was a douchebag, and would have elicited an equally antagonistic response from me.   But instead he said it with such a profound sense of pity in his voice that it completely disarmed me.  I was the sad, bitter drunk alone at the table making comments to people who were just trying to enjoy themselves at a friend‘s wedding.  Ugh. 

 

…

 

Ugh.

 

…

 

And so they left and I stayed.  I didn‘t feel very alone or anonymous though, because shortly several people at the wedding knew about me and what I had said and all eye-z were on me.  I went up to the bar and stood there having several drinks, happy to be away from the table and the general crowd.

 

While I don‘t think my actions got back to the bride and groom, they sure got back to Abby.  And you might be shocked to learn that – surprise surprise – she was not happy.  I don‘t need to get into it, but suffice it to say that there was no action going on that night and my whole “make Abby my lady“ plan took a SERIOUS step backward.  Like, big time.      

 

That night, the next day, the ride back, since then – all relatively crappy.  All completely my fault.  All because Jason + booze + lust = bad.  So, sweet.

 

I don‘t know what the next step is.  It‘s not like this will prove to be life-altering or anything.  I have a few friends coming up this weekend and I‘m sure I‘ll get so drunk that I‘ll fall down at least one, more likely four, flights of stairs. 

 

I know that Abby will forgive me, because she has that whole “good person“ thing going on.  Whether or not she‘ll suggest that we forget everything and move to Mexico together, well, that‘s another story.

 

But my justification (and after this paragraph is when the slew of “you jerkoff!“ emails will be written) for not feeling totally bad about this is that I have always been and still am a fun drunk.  Like I said, I have NO IDEA where this came from.  It was almost like I was momentarily possessed and once the damage was done, the evil spirit left me.  So I view this not as something indicative of my character, but rather a random occurrence that had never happened before and will never happen again.  So onward and upward.

 

[And for those of you who will write, "You should really stop drinking so much", I was not that drunk.  Well, I was very drunk, but I've been much, much drunker.  I don't want to give the impression that I was so drunk I blacked out and didn't know what I was doing.  I was aware.  For whatever it's worth.]

 

[And for those of you who will write, "My god – you're a total pussy!", believe me, I know that this falls in the "way too much information" department.  Fear not – tomorrow will we rejoin our regularly scheduled programming of dick jokes and racism.  So just hang in there.]

 

So that’s my wedding story, in a nutshell.  Once again, the Mighty Triumvirate of Booze, Lust, and Jealousy has reared its ugly head and ruined what could have been a perfectly nice evening.  I would end by discussing what I’ve learned, but they only thing that anyone has learned is that I am a terrible wedding date.  To which I respond: yup, pretty much.  Pretty much.