Yesterday, I attended a lovely wedding shower for a high school friend of mine who will be getting married later this June, and a third beloved friend is the maid of honor and hosted the soiree. It was a brunch at a local restaurant, and mimosas were served.
When I started drinking, the first drink I went to was the gin and tonic, a drink that I had taken sips from on the beach when I was in sixth or seventh grade and my parents rented a house on the beach in Vermillion, OH. I loved the lime tart citrus and gentle burn on gin, and it really became my idyll as far as drinking was concerned.
I was not a beer drinker when I started drinking, but I have definitely come around to beer being my drink of choice, simply because I know the kind of drunk I’m going to get when indulging, and I know exactly what I’m going to deal with the next morning.
But in the middle of those two assureds, for me, there will always be the nebulous realm of the supposed “girl drink,” which I am ultimately unable to handle. In this class of drinks you get the cosmo (vodka and cranberry juice: sugar), the screwdriver (orange juice and peach schnapps: sugar), and the mimosa (champagne and orange juice: sugar).
The mimosa will always be my kryptonite because of a) the sugar content of the juice, and b) I just can’t do champagne on a good day. I get a headache within five minutes, and 30 minutes later, I’m yawning and wanting to crawl under the furniture to take a nice, long nap. This usually happens to me: it’s a vicious cycle.
So, for whatever reason, I decided that I would have not only one, but two mimosas before brunch was even served. They were delicious, but for me, that was two too many. I even broke my general boycott on coffee to try and bring myself out of a champagne-induced torpor.
But you can’t ask for a gin and tonic before noon, unless it’s the Kentucky Derby: that’s just gauche. Next time, I’ll stick with iced tea.