Life can make you thirsty; and I don’t mean ice-water thirsty. I mean “Bring me the bottle” thirsty. I’ve been thirsty today, but it’s all about the cranberry juice. Wince and bear it, instead of wine and beer it. Why for? Well, it has long been my policy not to drink while experiencing emotional upheaval.
But I think about it.
Kind of a lot.
Many of the things I don’t do, I don’t do because I hadn’t done them by the time I turned nineteen, when I suddenly and irrevocably became a mom-person. I was so naive and unpolluted at the age when this befell, it was rather sad. I mean, I hadn’t even started the coffee habit.
Being a mother doesn’t make you a saint by any stretch of the imagination, but anyone with a semi-developed sense of responsibility will make a good faith effort not to become an alcoholic, a gambler, a smoker, a prostitute or a junkie once they have a wiggling Jr. blinking up at them with that steadfast, gooshie-faced gaze.
So anyway, I had a pretty dry twenties. It wasn’t boring, (croup? diapers? the terrifying hierarchy of soccer moms?) but it was dry. And so, it is with anticipation that I await the day my child is off to college, and I can begin an elaborate regression into recreational hydration and substance abuse.
I will smoke unfiltered marlboros from the fake-stone patios of seedy tourist traps.
I will trade-in my whole grain breakfasts for colorful shooters and highballs.
I will adopt such an advanced caffeine regimen, that the pace of my heart-beat will actually make time slow down.
People who pass me in closed spaces will experience first-hand the phenomenon of a ‘contact-high‘.
Understand that such commitment to personal addiction doesn’t just develop overnight. You have to want it. You have to want it bad.
And I do- I want my beautiful, golden Tequila Sunrise thank you, pack it on a Moscow Mule. I’m not a handy-glam, but show me the Screwdriver. Brandy and Soda? Only on church days. Bring me your Dubonnet Manhattans, your Long Island Teas, and if you forget my Bombay Smash, for heaven’s sake, Mister Mixer, you best come back with a straw-specked aquarium.
Whiskey Curacao Fizz, I don thee ‘Christmas’. (No one at this keyboard is going to remember New Years.)
Yes. Uh huh. That’ll be the life…
Just 8 years, 3 months, and 4 hours to go.
What’s your favorite drink? “Spill.” For now I will live vicariously through the debauchery of others. Tell me. Be explicit. And don’t forget the lime.