Why I Don’t Drink Beer

As you may recall, I promised to explain why I don’t drink beer. Sit back and enjoy this little story from my youth.

I was fifteen and had just finished my freshman year of high school. My boyfriend was a football player named Brian who had just graduated. He brought me along to a keg party at his buddy’s house. I’m pretty sure I was the only freshman there. This was most definitely an upperclassmen or just graduated party. These people had no business having a party like this when the guy’s parents were out of town, and I sure as HECK had no business being there. As if I would turn down an opportunity, though. Attendance at this party gave you the label of COOLNESS.

Brian was cutting up with the other jocks. I found my friend Myca (a year older than me) and we sat together next to the keg, discussing our good fortune to have been allowed to attend THE party of the year. Some guy was running the keg and asked us if we wanted a drink. Myca accepted and I declined. She looked at me like I was stupid and was all, “What difference does it make? Your boyfriend’s driving you home, anyway.” She made an excellent point and I accepted the cup filled with ice cold beer (I’m assuming Natty Light, otherwise known as Natural Light). I recall making some asinine comment about how I was unable to get drunk, anyway. Oh yeah. Because I had tried so many times. NOT. Can you say IMMATURE and INEXPERIENCED? I would not re-live my middle and high school years if you paid me. Anyway, moving right along…

As mentioned, I accepted a “cup.” Shall I explain the cup, as to not mislead the reader? This was not a dixie cup. This was not a styrofoam cup popular at your neighborhood picnic. This was a 64 oz cup from a gas station. Now, that in itself would have been too much for my 100 lb body to handle. I realize that when I type this next part, your immediate reaction will be to call me a liar and/or think I’m grossly exaggerating. To that I reply, I have no reason to make this crap up. I’m telling you the truth and only in that truth can you fully understand the loathing I have toward beer. I drank 8 cups of beer. If the cup had been completely full each time, that would have been 512 oz of beer. Now, it’s safe to assume the 64 oz cup had approximately 48 oz of beer each time it was filled. That’s still 384 oz of beer. This beer was consumed in roughly one hour.

I don’t remember what else happened that night. The next thing I knew, I woke up fully clothed in my own bed, face down in beer vomit. I had sweat so bad that my sheets and mattress were soaking wet. The odor of beer and vomit was so overpowering that I laid there and continued to vomit. I spent the entire day puking, in fact.

To this day, 16 1/2 years later, I cannot smell beer without dry heaving. I can’t even eat bread baked with beer. I’m not a medical professional, but I do believe I should have died that night. The only explanation for why I lived was that God had bigger plans for me than to suffocate in beer vomit at the age of 15. I am so thankful for Him saving my life through divine intervention. My hope in sharing this story is that perhaps a young person will take note that there is no element of coolness to this story and, thus, never consume alcohol even close to the amount I did.