Of course, not all my drinking has occurred within the confines of my own room. Hardly. One of my roommates and I made a policy of trying to get served, no matter where we were. It was worth a try, and if you didn't offer any identification when asked it was harmless.

There were other occasions, of course. An evening of dark Bacardi and Southern Comfort, gulped from miniature porcelain teacups in Grays, for example. As a first-year I played a certain House's waltz with a certain orchestra, and when the champagne ran out a certain master offered some of his own stock with the caveat, "Just don't tell anyone where you got it."

A similar waltz the following year led to more dire consequences. The tastes of that certain orchestra had surpassed champagne to more concentrated pleasures such as cognac and single-malt Scotch.

Needless to say, I experienced all three several times on that fateful evening of waltz conducting. I returned to my room after the post-waltz party, having walked a stumbling cellist home. At this point I still retained complete control of dexterous and psychological, but alas not intestinal, functions. I lay down in bed to read, hoping that Sir Walter Scott would wear off the Scotch. But the lines of text resembled the scrolling credits of a movie on fast-for-ward.

I did what any self-aware human would do. I proceeded to the bathroom and waited. It came, I felt better, I went to bed. I remember it vividly even now. At last I found where my physical tolerance ended.

This year during spring break, I brought four roommates back to my drinking milieu, this time represented by Montreal. In no nearby city can one have a good time more easily or for less money. In clubs, bars and cafes we drank with the abandon of those who know that most of the other American patrons are first-year barely pushing 18. We were much more legal than they were.

Back in Cambridge, I commented to my newly-legal roommate oh-so-politically-correctly about the wealth of "alcoholically-enabled" people we saw on our way to dinner. When we arrived at the restaurant, the hostess mentioned the enticing prospect of white peach margaritas. I couldn't resist. I had to play the game once more. I asked for a pitcher of said dreamy substance. "You all have ID, right?" she sighed boredly. "Yep," we said. And that was it. Soon, with that thrill that only the non-legal know, we too were alcoholically-enabled. Sorry, elementary school, you lost this one.