I ran into a friend of a friend on a treadmill next to me at the gym over the weekend. We talked for a few minutes before she mentioned that she needed to tell me something. She said she read a column I wrote a few months ago looking into rumors that women were being drugged at downtown bars. She said she thought it had happened to her.

It happened a year ago or so, she told me. She was at a function for a professional group after work. There were appetizers and she had a glass of wine. She finished her glass and then sat at the bar. The bartender offered her a second glass on the house. About halfway through it, she said, she started feeling really intoxicated.

She finished the glass, but felt so strange she decided to walk home. It was just after 7 p.m. At home, she said, she decided to eat something, thinking maybe it would absorb the alcohol. Then she went to bed "pretty much passed out" at around 8 p.m.

The next morning she woke up groggy, and found her kitchen in disarray.

"I thought I was eating the night before," she told me. "But I don't think any of the food made it to my mouth."

Here's the weird part: Just about the time she got to the end of the story, the woman on the treadmill on the other side of me interrupted.

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