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Speak Up

So being the smart single gal I am, knowing full well how much I (among others) enjoy beer and all its deliciousness, I attended this year's Atlantic Beer Festival back in May. Last year's event was a huge success and true to form, it certainly didn't disappoint this time around.

Swimming amongst the beer, the food and the men, I literally found myself with a permanent grin the entire evening. I had fun laughing, taste testing and shootin' hoops for prizes.

At one point however, while consuming some raspberry beer, I bumped into some mutual friends of my ex. We chatted for a few minutes on the success of the event, and of course, very briefly on how I was doing post breakup. Now, I must back step a little to remind you all that a few columns ago, I laid it out there pretty thick on some not-so-flattering behaviour my ex had succumb to. As you will recall I lashed out at him pretty hard on his drunk "sex text".

I'm about to eat those words and then some. And as humbling as this is to write, it needs to be said.

During my conversation with his fantastic friends a few words were said that peaked my interest. It was of course noted how disappointed he was in me and my lashing out, but that he in the end was more embarrassed than anything. I realize now that at the time he was angry at what I said, but in reality, he need not be embarrassed at all; everyone I've talked to since just giggles because they've also drunk texted before or have experienced it first hand. You see, when I write about dating and all that goes with it, I write from my heart in an effort to let everyone know these situations, although alarming at first, happen to all of us in one form or another.

One of his best buds did relay to me that my ex did say he was disappointed in me and my column, but at the same time wasn't sure if he had made the right decision on breaking things off with me. Now, on a normal day hearing these words would have made my heart flutter a bit, but that would have been it. Couple those words with an excessive amount of alcohol and you've just sent me on a melancholy trip down memory lane.

The rest of the evening was just as much fun as the festival itself. The shuttle bus dropped us off at The Old Triangle where we proceeded to consume more beer. Then it was off to The Chris Rock for the tail end of the hockey game, and more beer and then finally, a stop into St. James Gate to round out the night. By the time 1:30 a.m. came around, all the curl had come out of my hair from the dancing and the pouring rain and I literally could not even see straight.

My bestest bud drove me home and put up with my yammering in the car. I know we were talking about something, but my mind was literally elsewhere wandering to all those memories I had with my ex. I was trying to figure out in my mind and my heart why I can't bring myself to clean his dog's nose prints off the back windows of my car. I was remembering the day we spent painting his entire living room and not arguing once, not even once. I drifted to the time he and I vegged out on the couch watching back to back to back episodes of Family Guy while stuffing our faces with Fudgee-O's. I just couldn't get him and what I had learned from the evening out of my head. When she put the car in park, I snapped out of it.

Just before I closed to the door to head into my house she said: "Go inside, get something to eat and then get some sleep. Call me in the morning." I nodded my head, thanked her and walked in the door. I should have listened to her; but alas, the melancholy took over and before I even took my heels off I was sending my ex a text message. Notice, I didn't say 'sex-t' message. See, this is the difference between guys and gals (come on guys, you gotta give me at least this much "" this is so hard to admit). I texted him and told him how much I missed him, his voice, his arms and his laughter. He, a few weeks prior had texted me for a 'midnight rendezvous'.

I missed the emotional connection and he missed the physical. When I didn't get a response, one would assume I'd put myself to bed. Nope. I picked up my phone and called him! WTF? My head was obviously incredibly cloudy. I left him a very sappy, very corny message and then passed out on my couch, with my heels on.

I woke up in the morning with the worst hang over of my life. And I'm not kidding. It took me until Tuesday afternoon to come out of the fog (one doesn't recover as well as one used to in their younger years). While attempting to make coffee, flashbacks of my drunk-dialing came flooding back. Between bouts of puking and calling my friends, I decided my only recourse was to call him AGAIN and leave an "I'm sorry for calling you drunk last night" message. Geez, I must have still been out of it. Suffice it to say, I haven't heard from him at all.

And you know what, I don't blame him. I wouldn't have called me back either.

The only problem now is that in the game of life, I feel as though he's got one up on me. Like he's sitting there grinning at the world thinking he's got the last word. And again, that's OK. Maybe he does. The rules are fuzzy on this sort of situation.

Here's the deal; I never meant to hurt him or make him feel bad with that column, I was just being honest. Sometimes the truth hurts.

I have no idea if he'll ever read this column and honestly, it wasn't written just for him. It was written for all of us who consume alcohol and make emotional decisions. I haven't picked up an alcoholic beverage since that fateful night, not because I'm scared I'll drunk text him again (I think that horse is dead and gone), I think it's because I'm scared I may never recover.

E-mail Jenn at jennifer_batog@hotmail.com