So on Friday night, The Boy went out with his friend Mr. Sarcastic. When the two of them go out,** I usually know he won't be coming home until sometime after three, and most likely not very clear-headed.
I generally hate these evenings, because I can't seem to shake the experience of getting a 4 am phone call a few years back because Mr. Sarcastic had crashed his motorcyle and The Boy was flat on his back at the hospital. I spent the next month nursing The Boy back to health -- pulling chunks of road out of his arm, carrying him to the bathroom because he was in too much pain to put weight on his feet, pur��ing his food because he had such severe mouth/teeth injuries that he couldn't eat anything solid for three weeks. The Boy pretty much stayed in a codein haze for the first few weeks, and then was finally able to try walking without help after four. I think it goes without saying that my memories of that time were not good ones; I remember having to come back from between classes so that he could go to the bathroom, because otherwise he would just have to go in the bed.
The Boy and Mr. Sarcastic swear it wasn't drunk driving; it was that "the light turned red too quickly." I maintain that they're both in their 30's and should know better, but France just doesn't have the same sort of aggressive drunk driving awareness program as we have in the States. So when the two of them go out, I totally and completely pull that mother hen act, waiting for her teenage son to come back from God knows where. It's a little pathetic, really, but it's something I can't really control or rationalize.
This last Friday, I went to bed around 2 and then tossed and turned until 5.30, when The Boy finally stumbled his way through the door. It was relieving to see him; I had been pulling out all the dwell-on-this topics I could find to distract myself from the terrible visions of what another early morning phone call would mean.
He didn't even seem THAT drunk, which was miraculous for such a late hour. He wandered into the bedroom and got in bed, gave me a kiss and said, "I'm exhausted..." As he put his arm around me, he said, "You're hot" (meaning temperature wise, of course) and I said, "That's because I've been under the covers for hours, but sometimes when I get into bed after you, you're so hot that I feel like I'm swimming in a pool of sweat."***
This was enough to set him off, because I apparently said the word for sweat incorrectly. He laughed, made fun of me some, and then the strangest thing happened: he started a two-way dialogue. With himself.
Him: A pool of sweat. Ha! Sweat. I need to stop swimming in a pool of sweat.
Him: Right, well, then, we should just empty the sweat from the pool.
Him: But how do we empty the pool?
Him: I don't know. Maybe we should just fill the pool with water instead?
Him: We at least have to empty the pool of all the sweat first, though, before we put in the water.
Him: Right, right. Hm... well, this is a problem!
Him: Yes! I know! The pool of sweat is not an easy issue to resolve!
I tried to interrupt at some point and ask him to stop talking (I was trying to sleep of course) but it was as if he just didn't hear me. Or he heard me, but only on some other level. It was at this point that I realized that, although he was speaking perfectly clearly without any slur whatsoever, he was both drunk and exhausted. I think he might have actually have been asleep at this point, but the sleeping didn't prevent him from carrying on an INSANE conversation for at least 45 minutes.
Him: If you would stop talking for a minute I could just think about how to get all that sweat out of the pool.
Him: I need to not stop to not be talking. How can I not stop talking?
Him: No, you need to not stop to not talk to be sure to not be talking when you stop.
Him: Well, that's really clear. Maybe you need to figure out what you're trying to say.
Him: Stop talking, Jesus! You're not talking enough for me to stop talking....
And so on.
When it became obvious that this was not going to end, I eventually just gathered up some blankets and went to sleep in the living room. I could still hear the conversation, but at least I was no longer privy to the details. At one point he yelled out (to himself, of course), "Your breath stinks, man!"
Of course, he doesn't remember any of this.
** The two boys only go out once every month or so. So WEIRD. They're best friends, and they only hang out once a month. What IS that? Boys do that a lot. I freak out if I don't see my friends for three days.
*** The Boy has a real sweating problem at night. Does anyone know how to fix this? He snuggles up under the covers and is so tired that he doesn't move for several hours. It turns out that the covers are too hot for him after a certain point, but he doesn't adjust them for temperature. So he just sweats buckets and buckets. It's pretty gross for me. He says it's a sign of good health, but I still maintain I don't want to sleep next to that. Sometimes, it's like that chalk outline found at murder scenes, except it's a sweat outline. In our bed.
ha, that's crazy. and funny.
And I know what you mean about freaking out - fab only REALLY goes out with his friends once or twice a month, but i never sleep soundly til he's home (usually between 5 and 6am). they drink so much, and don't seem to have qualms about driving afterwards, so i just lay awake in fear that something has happened. the worst part is that we live on the road to the hospital, so there are ambulances constantly going by - hearing all those sirens freaks me out even more.
god, if it's this bad now, can you imagine how it's going to be when (if) we have teenage kids??