There are very few things that I am proud to say I am very good at, and one of those things is the ability to knock back wine like water and do so with much class and grace. A single serving of beer or hard liquor will have me stumbling around like a horse trying to waltz on its hind legs, but a bottle or two of wine barely faze me.

So it was a huge surprise and betrayal when my own body turned against me one afternoon.

Cha and I were hanging out in my apartment. I had called in sick that day because of anxiety issues and not used to being on the anti-depressant pill that was prescribed to me. He planted himself on a chair while I stayed on the floor in a stained t-shirt from high school and my boyshorts. Like a ritual, he disemboweled a wine Swisher and stuffed it with weed he kept in a recycled Orbitz container that had a puffy Hello Kitty sticker on it. Then he proceeded to hotbox my apartment.

He was going to pass it to me, but stopped and asked, "Are you sure you can smoke with that pill?"

I shrugged. Checked out the bottle and read the warnings. Technically, I shouldn't be smoking, drinking, or operating heavy machinery after taking the happy pill, but that same warning is pretty much on every medicine bottle on Earth. It's like Michael Scott's Urgent A, Urgent B, and Urgent C memos. You don't take them seriously...right?

"This shit says no. But I took the pill two hours ago. I should be fine, yeah?"

He shrugs, too. I took the blunt anyway. I enjoyed my smoke and he fetched us two glasses of cheap red wine. We might as well go for a joy ride afterwards while we were at it.

I chugged two glasses of wine, and then I started feeling weird. Not drunk.

"Hey, so... I feel sick," I said. I looked up at Cha just as he handed the blunt back to me. I shook my head to let him know that I was done.

"You should smoke more. It will make you feel better," he said, blowing smoke in my direction.

I shook my head again. "No, seriously, my side is starting to hurt."

For his part, Cha sat back on the tattered leather office chair that I inherited from Sara, my previous roommate, and continued to smoke. I started to lie down on the floor and assumed the fetal position.

"Bro, I can't breathe," I wheezed, clutching at my ribs. I could feel my limbs growing cold and sweat beading on my back and forehead. Signs of an anxiety attack. Except...there was nothing to be anxious about. I was completely fine, enjoying the weed and wine with my buddy.

Sensing the escalating distress that I was in, Cha leaned forward and asked if I was okay.

"No! I'm not okay!" I clutched at my chest this time. Excruciating pain like nothing I had ever experience before washed over me. My overactive imagination sent visuals into my brain--my ribs constricting, preventing my heart from beating and my lungs from expanding. I couldn't breathe. This time, I was truly getting an anxiety attack because my body was having an anxiety attack for no reason.

"I can't breathe!" I exclaimed, although somewhat airily. I barely had enough oxygen to stay conscious.

"Do you want me to carry you to the bed?" Cha asked.

"No!" I groaned.

"How about the shower? A bath will make you feel better."

"No. Don't move me," I cried as I further crawled up into a sweaty ball.

As if it were Opposite Day, Cha attempted to hook his arms under my legs and shoulders. I squirmed and tried to push him away.

"I said don't move me! I can't breathe," I hissed. "I don't want to die."

"Do you want me to call 911?"

"NO!"

"Why not? Come on, give me your phone. I'm calling 911." He was strangely calm during the whole ordeal, like this was nothing new.

"I said no. I can't breathe. I don't want to die. Don't move me. I don't want 911." And I continued saying that for a minute.

I certainly did not want emergency personnel barging into my weed-smelling apartment to find me pants-less and writhing on the floor.

I looked up and saw Cha had leaned back again and was calmly finishing the blunt. "Dude, you gotta control yo'self," he said, shaking his head.

If I had strength to glare, I would have. But I had used all my remaining energy to curl around myself tighter until I resembled a scared baby hedgehog.

After a few minutes, the pain subsided. My heart rate slowed down. I was finally able to breathe normally.

I stayed on the floor for a few more minutes. Then I rolled over and crawled to couch. I grabbed the little stuffed tiger he won for me from a carnival and hit him upside the head with it. That sure showed him.

(After a talk with a few friends on Facebook, I confirmed that anti-depressants and alcohol most certainly don't mix. So it's safe to say that I'm still queen of wine, just not while on happy pills.)