Blame the Meds 2

Here, by special request, is another installation of crazy college stories I wish I could have blogged about at the time – but my college pre-dates blogs….so thankfully I have a great memory and friends that remind me.  All. The. Damn. Time.

In case you missed it, Me + medication = a lot of fun for everyone but me.

This glorious moment involved muscle relaxers.

I threw out my back during a particular rough set in dance/cheer practice.  No stranger to back pain, I went straight to the health center, where they prescribed me muscle relaxers.

Me: How many do I take?

Dr: How bad does it hurt?

Me: Scale of 1 – 10, I’ll say 8.

Dr: Take two for anything over 7, take one the rest of the time as needed.

I pop two muscle relaxers and head off to class. At this point, it’s probably important that you know I was not a very healthy lady at the time.  I had not eaten anything solid in 24 hours and was living off coffee and sheer will.

This is the second day of my college career.  I’m a freshman, valedictorian of my HS, child of educators…..  I can’t miss class!  It’s in my blood to be studious!  So, I decide to go to class.

In class, I begin to feel tingly.  I chalk it up to being hungry. I sit and pull out my book.  I try to get out my pen, but I can’t hold on to the damn thing. I keep dropping it… and it’s making me giggle.

I attribute the giggles and inability to hold the pen to lack of sleep.

Class starts.  I realize I can’t sit up any more.  My ass is slowly creeping down the chair, inching ever so slow and steady towards the floor.  This also makes me giggle.

Luckily, the professor was a nice guy.  He ever so sweetly comes to my desk and asks if I am ok.

Me: No. I’m on drugs!  I begin to laugh really hard and pretty much slide into the floor.

Professor: Ok then.  I can see….  Which ones?

Me: These. Want one? I point to the bottle in my bag and giggle.

Professor: How many did you take?

Me: Two, handsome….  fit of giggles

Professor: Why do you have these?

Me: I threw my back out. But these help because I can’t feel it anymore.

Professor: Why did you come to class?

Me: Because my mom said I couldn’t miss class or she’d have my ass.  Oh shit I said ass.  clamp my hand over my mouth, eyes wide.

Professor:  has knelt down beside me at this point, his hand is on my shoulder.  Well, let’s not tell her.  Right now, you need to get back to your dorm.  Where is it?

Me: I don’t know….   I say in the sing-songy way while twirling my hair…clearly attempting to flirt.

Professor: stands back up.  Ok. Class.  I need your help.  Do any of you know this girl? He stands me up best he can, arm around my waist.

Me: pageant wave

Professor: She’s had a bit of an accident and she needs to go back to her dorm.

In the back of the room, there was a football player. A cute football player. He lived in my dorm. And, he was, apparently, a saint.  Note: I lived in a non-governed dorm that alternated a suite of boys; suite of girls. There were no RA’s or whatever in this specific dorm. Why my parents agreed? Wow. They must totally trust me….

Hero: I know her. She really did throw her back out at cheer practice, I saw her. She lives on the floor under me.

Me: You’re cute….. I attempt to flip my hair.

Hero: I’ll take her back to the dorm safe, Sir.

Professor: Sit with her until someone gets there ok?

Hero: I’m on it.

Me: giggling I bet you are….

Hero: Ok. This is probably going to hurt, but I can’t think of any other way to get you back across campus.  He hoists me over his shoulder like a caveman. My backpack goes on his other shoulder.

Me: scream in pain and pass out

I have memory of what I just described, but have no idea how we managed to get back across campus, or the looks we must have been given.  My brain clearly is protecting me here because I also don’t remember telling him I had no idea what suite was mine.  Or the fact that he had to try, God bless him, every door until he found the one that my key fit.   I don’t remember that he put me down on the bed and I attempted to undress (because I don’t sleep in pants I kept telling him).  I also have no memory of throwing up the moment he sat me down, then saying, “I swear I’m not drunk.” What I do remember is that I woke up and he was there….with my suite mates….looking down on me.

Me: Am I dead? I can’t feel my face.

All: exchange glances and giggles

Hero: No hon, but you’re probably gonna wish you were.

Me: Oh hell.  Please tell me….. oh my God… memories begin to flood back   Did I…. oh freakin a…oh GOD tell me no….

Hero: Yeah.  That all happened.  And probably some stuff you don’t remember.

Me: immediately look down and see I still have pants on, to which I say Oh thank God!

Hero: You did try to take those off though. nods towards my pants

Me: Oh hell… oh hell….this is bad. grabbing my head

Roommate: When did you eat last?

Me: blink blink

Hero: That’s what we thought.  Eat this sandwich.  Then we’ll take your next dose.

Me: Ugh…eff me….this is worse than bad…. I want to die.  I pull the covers over my head.

Hero: Yeah…we thought you might for a minute.  You didn’t look like you were breathing baby girl.  pulls the cover off my face. And…you might wanna change out of that class….just sayin.

Me: grunt and pull the covers back over my head.  Smother me. It’ll be a mercy killing.

Roommate: Do I get all A’s if you die this semester?

Me: I think I kinda hate you. This began a very close bond between my roommate and I that continues today. We say “I kinda hate you” a lot.  It really means I love you, but it all stems from this moment in time.

I made one hell of an impression on my suite…my class…the professor…and that poor boy upstairs.

I did transfer out of that class, after a deep, heartfelt apology to the professor.

My suite mates heretofore randomly yell “I’m on drugs!” or “I swear I’m not drunk” as they did the pageant wave at wildly inopportune times.  I’m relatively sure that at my funeral, the whole of them will stand there, do the wave and maybe even roar for me.

I did date the Hero boy for a little bit, just not that year.  He transferred junior year and we lost touch.  It’s probably for the best.   “Mommy.  Is it true you were on drugs when you met Daddy?”  Kill me now.  Y’all know my kids would totally ask that…..

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