Century Club

I feel like my posts lately have all been about funerals and extramarital affairs.  So while talking to a friend earlier, about how I was planning on writing about this article my mom clipped out for me, headlined, “Mood improves when the going gets tough,” I stopped myself.

“Or I could write about the Century Club,” I said, my mind already made up.  The article, it seems, can wait until tomorrow.

The Century Club, for those who didn’t have the pleasure of attending a renowned American party school, is basically a really long drinking game.  The premise is that you drink beer out of a shot glass: one ounce per minute, for 100 minutes straight (hence, “century”).  There is also a less intense version of this game, called the Power Hour (60 shots of beer in 60 minutes).  If you skip a shot, you’re out.  If you puke, you’re out.  Between the alcohol, the carbonation, and the sheer volume of liquid you’re putting into your body in such a short time, it’s harder than it sounds.

I’ve never attempted this idiotic feat, but I have witnessed it a few times, the most recent of which was this afternoon.  Doug and some of his friends decided to try for a repeat performance of their Century Club party a few years ago, and I was invited to keep score.

I’ve found that, as I age, I have less tolerance for college-style drinking and the people who do it.  However, as I sat on that couch today with a kitchen timer and a tally sheet, telling the men to drink and calling them out when they didn’t, I realized something I’ve forgotten to mention here:

My ex-husband and I refused to get drunk in front of each other.

Who knows where these boundaries came from, the ones that made premarital sex and excess alcohol taboo, while peeing in front of each other was perfectly okay.  All I can think to say is that this is further proof that I wasn’t comfortable in that relationship.  My ex wasn’t bettering me by getting me to renounce my wanton college-girl ways; he was stifling me from letting loose and having fun.  And I, equally scandalized on the few occasions I’d seen him over the limit, was somehow doing the same to him.

Don’t get me wrong.  Drunk Doug is loud, annoying, and way too likely to vomit, but at least I can tolerate him.  And he seems to really enjoy it when I drink, if only because he thinks it’ll make me an easier lay.  All those details aside, there’s no aspect of ourselves that we actively hide from each other, or want hidden by the other, like there was in my last relationship.

Doug also reminded me today of the time when my ex, my brothers, and some friends decided to attempt the Century Club at my apartment.  None of the guys made it much past 40 before giving up, which is another gripe I always had about my ex: he could talk a big game, but when it came down to it, he wasn’t very macho.  I never really had any confidence in his ability to protect me, to pick me up, or to pin me down.

This afternoon, Doug got to shot number 85-and-a-half, before declaring adamently that he didn’t want to puke, and therefore wouldn’t be drinking any more.  I have to respect that.  My girlfriend, who’d come to check out the festivities, and I hung around just long enough to see the last guy spit his beer all over himself when something made him laugh, at shot 88.  Then we left the guys to watch football, soak up the beer with chocolate chip cookies, and delight repeatedly in their creation of a new pet name, “Sweater Muffins.”

We took off for a coffee shop, because my friend needed to study, and I needed to borrow her laptop.  And we plan to be gone just long enough to let the guys sober up a little – because college-drunk men are only so entertaining for so long, before I take Doug home and hold him to his promise of watching Bridget Jones’s Diary with me.

This entry was posted in divorce, friends, love, marriage, perspective, sex or lack thereof. Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to Century Club

  1. Arohanui says:

    Did your ex have “lady hands” as well? Hmmm.

    Hey, I got my card! I actually picked it up on Saturday as was slack collecting my mail last week. THANK YOU!!! I laughed when I saw it addressed to Arohanui, my mailman Peter would have been quite perplexed by that 🙂 I also decided I was being a dick not to have given you my real name with my address. Sorry. Your return card is prepped for posting tomorrow.

    PS. Sorry to hear about your laptop, do you have insurance?

    • Marie says:

      My ex DID have lady hands! I mean, not in size or shape maybe, but definitely in tempurature and texture. (I think we’ve already discussed this at some point…)

      You’re welcome. You may have to explain to Peter some day, but as long as it got there regardless, no harm done. Thanks for the return card as well 🙂

      And no, my laptop was very, very old. It was on its way out anyway, and I suspect if I’d been able to wait six months (my birthday) before I killed it, I wouldn’t have this transition period of computer-sharing.

  2. Elphaba says:

    a) Ew, lady hands? I hate lady hands.
    b) You’re sending mail to Arohanui? I’m uber-jealous!
    c) When I was university, the guys did the century game all the time. I’d completely forgotten about that until you’d mentioned it.
    d) I got drunk on my very first date with Mr. M… maybe that meant something?

    • Marie says:

      a) Glad we all agree.
      b) Yes, she asked for a copy of that card I wrote about just before Christmas, and I’m lazy in sending mail, so it took several weeks. Did you want a copy too? I bought lots.
      c) Yeah… I’d completely forgotten my ex and brothers tried it that one time, until Doug reminded me.
      d) My and Doug’s first “date” centered around drinking as well. We went out for margaritas, he introduced me to Tuaca, then we stumbled back to my apartment and, as I showed Doug to the exit of my giant complex, my then-husband followed me down the street in my car, yelling at me to get in. Good times.

  3. slcurwin says:

    My buddies played this back in the day, I think one of them even succeeded. I on the other hand can’t drinking and I’m with you on the drunks only being fun for so long, so I dont stick around past the “everyone’s hammer” point.
    Totally forgot about that game.

  4. Saundra says:

    I’m sorry to say, but the term “sweater puppets” is already in circulation. This could be a variation, or the boys projected drunk originality…?

    • Marie says:

      Sweater MUFFINS. I’m going with drunk originality. They continued to laugh about this name for a good 45 minutes, except that Doug couldn’t remember what it was, and one time, trying to get my friend’s attention from the other room, called for “Muffin Top.” Fail.

  5. curlyqginger says:

    I lived with 2 ex-frat guys when I was 23 in NY. They would hold Power Hours w/ obnoxious friends once a week and leave for the clubs. Like clock work, 30 minutes after they left the cops would always show up. The neighbors would call the cops and complain about the noise.I would answer the door wearing reading glasses, wearing my PJ and holding a kitten. Thank goodness they never actually looked in the Living Room. It was full of broken beer bottles, cans and chinese food. All of which I got to clean up.

    After that, I made a vow to only live with Theatre people…. I have now made another vow to NEVER live with Theatre people, especially Theatre people who were in Frats. 🙂

  6. Pingback: Indulgence | Bakery Closed Until Further Notice

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s