Been absent from the blog for a bit. I haven’t had any inspiration. Not sure I have any today, either. Todd and I had an outing last weekend to support a high school friend who’s fighting cancer. Cancer. What the fuck? When did we get old enough to have peers with cancer?
I drank too much. When we got in the car, with my brother in the back seat, I said I really wasn’t up to drinking. Todd said, great! This means I would be the designated driver for a change. We got there. It was crowded. It took nearly 30 minutes to get our first beers. So, being ever efficient, I ordered two. I hadn’t eaten dinner. You do the digestive math.
Alcohol is evil. I drank beer, the absolute least innocuous alcoholic beverage I could think of. My girlfriend, hours earlier, had suggested that tequila is a fat-buster, since she was the skinniest she ever was when it was her proprietary drink. I forgot the advice an hour later and started drinking IPA.
I saw a bunch of people from high school I have absolutely no contact with IRL – and, a week later, I know exactly why. Of course there are a handful that I do keep in contact with, but ultimately, it wasn’t worth the time or the ill-timed alcoholic response I had to the others. Nevertheless, I learned a few things. Take a lesson from Tara.
There is no such thing as “just a couple of beers.” A couple of beers on an empty stomach translate as you will be drunk within an hour and have no control over your common sense. I keep forgetting this lesson. It’s a lot easier too, when your little brother with the wooden leg is along for the ride. And, while we’re here, your little brother – unless he’s been expertly trained – cannot be counted on to be your wingman. For the record, I never asked him to be, but still – in retrospect I think had he been taught properly to look out for his big sister, some of the more stupid aspects of my evening might have been avoided.
Being drunk means making bad decisions. I wanted to curse the gods that my bff wasn’t there to reel me back in, or that Todd loves me enough to let me be who am I for whatever it’s worth. But, at 46 years old, I shouldn’t need someone else to beat some sense into me. I should know better. So – I spent some time this week revisiting my embarrassment and also contemplating what drove me to make certain decisions . What did I expect to get out of it? What message did my poor decision, driven by Goose Island IPA, send? And this is where I went terribly wrong. I know my intentions were nothing more than clearing some air that’s been void of oxygen for 20 years. Should’ve left well enough alone.
I’m a nice person. I have an innate desire to BE nice, and also to be perceived as nice. I like to get along with everyone. Including my ex – and we all know how far that gets me before I get burned, like the burgers my brother grilled at last summer’s party. I don’t want people to think I’m a bad person, a bitch, or someone worth avoiding. I enjoy banter with friends – old and new. And I had a good time getting caught up that night with old friends. Yet… I drank too much. Probably said things I shouldn’t have. What’s worse – not knowing what I said. Which is why alcohol is a bad thing.
I am self-destructive.What is it that makes me self-destructive? I do, and say, things sometimes that serve no one, not especially myself. And I’m not sure where this comes from, or why. And it’s not alcohol-driven. It’s a rare thing nowadays, these attempts I unconsciously make at self-sabotage. But I suppose I was overdue, and the alcohol opened the door for insidious behavior.
Forty six. Not the age to throw caution and common sense to the wind and hope your house is still standing when you wake up. I’m feeling terribly fragile by my carelessness. No one is making me feel this way… only me.