Last night, I almost passed out in Copley station.

I don’t have that gene that correctly encodes the enzyme that converts acetaldehyde into acetic acid. In other words, when I drink, I don’t metabolize alcohol all the way. Acetaldehydes, toxic as they are, accumulate in my bloodstream, as opposed to turning into the relatively benign acetic acid. This translates into me being extaordinarily bad at “holding down” my alcohol. After about a half-drink, my pulse races, I feel lightheaded (which turns out to be a distinct symptom from actual inebriation), and my ears, followed by my face and eventually my entire body, begin to get hot and flushed. However I have historically been able to hold down one drink, no problem. One drink was my limit, I was aware, so I never felt the need to push beyond it.

Last night, I had a highball glass-sized serving of a mojito, and not even all of it. It was about three-fourths of it. Turns out my limit can be a lot lower than I thought it was.

After leaving POPS, a restaurant at the South End, I found it increasingly difficult to walk. Yang found this amusing, as did I at the time. We got to Copley Station and waited for the train. I found myself getting progressively sleepier until I had to lean on Yang to stay standing. Then, all of a sudden, the most extraordinary feeling came over me: first I lost my hearing. It was perplexing because one minute I was in a loud station with the distant shrieking of train cars grinding against their tracks. The next it was silent and muffled. Then, I lost my vision almost entirely; I remember being aware of where things where, but couldn’t actually “see” anything. Then I began to get very lightheaded. And then I was struggling to breathe. At this point I was very aware that if I passed out, this could potentially be very very bad. I did not want to end up at the BMC because I had 3/4 of a mojito. So, in a cold sweat, I tried my hardest to repeatedly force air through my lungs. I had no idea what I looked like to outsiders or how successful it was; it didn’t feel very successful at all, as it seemed that my lungs forgot how to reinflate themselves. Yang maneuvered me to the bench and I sat down, kept trying to breathe. I was freaked out beyond belief. I don’t know how much longer this went on for, but eventually the feeling subsided. I ended up afterwards with a pounding headache and a wrench in my abdomen.

Remarkably, I did not throw up when we got home, and a few hours later I was fine. But I do remember waking up at 4 a.m., completely vexed by the possibility that I might experience the threat of asphyxiation again. It took me a bit to get back to sleep.

Call it what you will—extreme Asian blush, alcohol poisoning, overdosing—it was not a good experience. I now know better than to try and finish one drink. However, given that I’ve had a whole day of lucidity (no hangover) to ponder this, I’m both saddened and frustrated by this. Especially as Yang finds it entertaining to flaunt his Asian but nevertheless functional genetic makeup every time we encounter alcohol together. Through no fault of my own, I cannot simply savor a good tipple like any self-respecting serious foodie. On winetasting tours, I am the first to resign myself to waiting in the car. At dinners out, I am the first to lose my ability to engage in meaningful conversation or attentive tasting of the food. There is a world of flavors, textures, and scents from which I must quarantine myself. The injustice of it all.

I should perhaps stop whining (hah) about this. At least I am able to have some cheese with that. (Thank you, Yang.) On a more upbeat note, I have yet to find myself put in grave physical danger by a cheese. Yesterday, while wandering through the South End, we happened upon a little Formaggio, where I picked up a jar of fig jam and some of the most unbelievably creamy comté ever. Which I shall have tomorrow. Without wine.