I'm definitely too old for this, but it's hard to shake the temptation. While the phenomenon doesn't seem quite as prominent in Dallas, Black Wednesday has become a steadfast tradition across the country.
It's easy to understand how it got started. College kids home for the holiday finally have a chance to catch up with friends they haven't seen in months. Finals are weeks off, everyone has no responsibilities the next day, and one of the world's best hangover cures loaded with gravy promises to greet them the second they wake up. It's time to get tanked!
Even though my college days are long gone, I'd still love to indulge this tradition here in Dallas. I hear the Hockaday alums are gonna be partying at the Stoneleigh P tonight, and I'm sure there are other reunions to crash. The thing is: I'm hosting Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, and there's nobody to whip up that hangover cure but me.
The thought of pulling my ass out of bed, dashing to the store to pick up the 18 things I forgot to buy the night before and then cooking for hours in a dehydrated stupor is less than attractive. Imagine reaching inside a cold dead turkey to clean out raw liver fragments with a throbbing headache and whisking coagulated gravy while the ghost of 12 So-Co and lime shots rot in your gut. But still, it's Thanksgiving. I deserve to party.
And why not? All I have to do is peel myself from my sheets and toss a roasting pan in the oven, before indulging my couch for a mid-morning nap. I could even get the bird all buttered up and ready to go the night before. Mashed potatoes don't take that long, and I bet I could prep my dressing too. I just need to shake the haunting suspicion that I'm about to trash the holiday of several guests all in the name of one last shot.
I can do it. I can pull this off. All I need is a little more time. Thanksgiving dinner at my house, 9 p.m. sharp.
