Being sober on a bus is, like, totally different than being drunk on a bus. ~ Ozzy Osbourne
It’s like when you wake up in the middle of the night and have to work to conjure up enough saliva to peel your sandpaper tongue off the roof of your mouth. That happens to me all the time! ~ Me, to a group of friends who, if they didn’t already know, realized, just from that subtle comment that I was, in fact, a drunk
Recently, I found myself in a circle of acquaintances who were drinking whiskey. It wasn’t just any whiskey. It was Jameson. And, it wasn’t just any day. It was St. Patrick’s Day. A drinker’s holiday, a bottle of fine spirits, and a room full of jovial artists!
But, yeah, I no longer drink and to me the room absolutely reeked of the sweet, pungent odor of brown liquor. The scent floated from the bottoms of glasses and reached its cunning fingers up to singe my nose hairs. I didn’t know whether to inhale deeply or to breathe through my mouth. While everyone raised their glass for a toast, I didn’t even have a coffee to sip on. And, while I sat looking modestly at the table and practically twiddling my thumbs, I thought that maybe I should’ve worn my nun’s habit. I actually contemplated bursting into a pained version of “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”
Still, in a few days I will hit the 7 month anniversary of my sobriety. That’s 210 days without a drop. That means no smooth California red blends, no Dale’s Pale Ale, no Lemon Drops, no Maker’s Mark Manhattans. 210 days and I’m as dry as the Mojave. Yay me!