Pink punch, what’s not to love, it’s summer in a glass!
Last night’s birthday celebration, woohoo Ashely, was a magical summer gathering at the island happy hour hotspot, the pump. It started out innocently enough; babies, puppies and deviled eggs were passed around and the theme cocktail was served, pink punch. The last time I drank punch was at a bridal shower, it had champagne in it and was served in a crystal bowl with pink sherbet floating on top. This punch was poured from plastic gallon jugs into paper cups and came with a friendly warning, “This punch packs a punch…ha ha”. The cool pink liquid was light and refreshing and I loved it! Better yet, I couldn’t taste the alcohol. For a moment, I had flashbacks to college frat parties with lined trash cans filled with grain alcohol punch; but I couldn’t imagine grain alcohol being an island additive and more importantly, I didn’t care what was in there, it was pink, pretty and it was delicious.
Most people had a glass of punch, ate more than one deviled egg, and kept their sanity. I did not. I drank and drank. The punch never ran out; there was an endless supply of wagons loaded with coolers filled with pink jugs. The delicious deviled egg I ate was not soaking up my alcohol intake and instinctively I knew I needed to slow down and more importantly I needed to pee. Thankfully, a fellow punch lover needed to pee as well and insisted we walk to a proper restroom rather than taking me up on my brilliant idea to pee in the bushes. Upon our return I implemented my drinking strategy, I filled my cup up with ice before pouring in the pink punch thinking the water from the ice would dilute my drink and provide hydration at the same time – if only I drank slowly enough for the ice to melt.
Darkness came and the punch party continued. There were others who were also jacked up on a sugar high and the unknown alcohol intake so we moved indoors. This is where things get a bit fuzzy. I think I had the wherewithal to stop drinking, but I can’t be 100% sure of that. I do remember singing and dancing to Sweet Caroline (Achilles not pleased and Neil Diamond fans horrified), then poo-pooing country music (sorry Dana), and demanding Axl Rose and ABBA music to be played (Heather thank you for your efforts). Before Dancing Queen hit the airwaves, I took myself out. I brought myself home. The saving grace, my saving grace, was the fact that the party hosts live spitting distance to my family home and I managed to make it back.
It may take me the rest of the summer to recover and I have sworn off everything pink, but my night of pink punch partying was a blast.