Holiday (tequila)

Source: Google Images

As of late a gentleman named Jose has had a significant impact on my life. At least, Jose spurred a chain of events that led up to this moment in time. Things were getting pretty serious between us back in college…but then I met his worldly uncle Patron. Jose had the tall, lean build, but Patron really introduced me to the finer things in life. And of course by the finer things I mean things that are not fine at all, but somehow seem so when a rich, worldly uncle describes them. (You know, sort of how I’m trying to make tequila shots sound elegant in this paragraph.)

Actually, Patron and I had a nasty breakup and I typically avoid him like the plague. But this story begins and ends in Mexico. A place where the waiters frown when you order water and admonish, “No tequila, no vacation.”

Really, the question of the week stems from utter bafflement on my part. Why is this Mexican nectar so toxic for those who are north of the border?

Sidebar: [Meddlesome reader: But wait, isn’t this a dating blog? Knowing blogger (aka radiant sunbeam of light): Not only did I introduce this blog in a datey (yep, invented that) way, but if anyone here would like to say that no relationship has ever begun or ended under the influence of tequila you may throw the first stone. Pertinent. Topic. Lawyered!]

Anyway, according to an article from 1977 whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell, tequila can only be produced in the state of Jalisco and limited regions in a few other Mexican states. Mexico also holds exclusive international rights to the word ‘tequila’. 

Naturally, what I take from this is that tequila appears to be an elitist, segregated alcohol. This makes me think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry eats the black and white cookie, and the two sides don’t get along and break his near 15-year vomit-free streak. (What? Only three of you understand that reference? The rest can stop reading my blog.) First off, all of this pondering made me hungry—stopping mid-thought for a sweet, and yet refreshing Junior Mints break—and second, ARE our bodies being taken over by some sort of fascist dictator every time we drink tequila? Probably.

I mean, if we weren’t being puppeteered by some eccentric middle-aged man by the name of Patron, how could one possibly go from avoiding a certain person by hiding behind a friend or locked door to chatting and carrying on enthusiastically with said party in just a few short minutes? Of course, those minutes were really hours and that carrying on is a euphemism, and your friend did abandon you for her own selfish reasons (ugh, sleep is so bourgeois).

And how could one go from Cuervo (perhaps a tall, lean, good-looking Israeli from Denver) to Patron (a rich, worldly…let’s just not talk about it). The anecdotes could LIT-erally (oh, how I love Rob Lowe on Parks & Rec) carry on for days, but the answer is simple: One. Drank. Too. Much. Tequila. 

According to the mythology behind this ‘nectar of the gods’ (here), reader’s digest version, a goddess stole the light of the earth, and another god got angry and went to kill her. Instead, he fell in love with her daughter and forgot his original intent (sounds like tequila), and when the mother goddess found out and sent people to kill him, he and his lover of course decided to become a tree (?). Unfortunately, the mother still killed her daughter. Harsh. The man god buried her remains and they grew into the agave plant. The rest of the gods took pity on him and struck the plant with lightning, producing tequila to ease the man’s pain of lost love. Soounds like a pretty accurate story of tequila’s influence on the world today.

So what we’re dealing with here are angry gods and elitist puppeteer dictators. NO WONDER Saturday night was so crazy.