After one beer, I can feel the effects of beer, and I don't like any of them. My face is saying things, and my brain still recognizes that these things are dulled: perhaps slower, definitely louder than my inside voice. I don't like being hyper-conscious of the stages involved with becoming altered. Does my foot look funny because I'm getting drunk, or did I just break it? Or does it just not look funny at all?
If I know one beer is being chased by another, I can avoid that awkwardness by being halfway done with the second one before the first one sets in, thus guaranteeing that I don't have front row seats for the execution of whatever controls my motor skills.
This is why I don't do happy hour. I stopped at RT Quinlan's tonight. Cork1 was there, and it was on the way to my car. I'm all "I'm just going to have one beer and go home." Chuck, who knows that I hate one beer as much as I hate leeches, had this response: "You're gonna end up doing a workday length bar session."
It is pretty easy to coax me into a second. And even easier to coax me into a third. And that is all the set up for a pretty funny story about the time I spent $86 at Pizza Luce.
Instead I went home and made dinner, completely paranoid that I was chopping vegetables like a drunky. Gah. I hate that.