Drinkin’

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Ten-Forty am. I no longer feel like my head is one hundred percent full of cotton. I no longer have any residual head pain. This is in part, a large part, due to the ingestion of about three extra strength Tylenol and two Advil, an icepack under my neck and about seven hours of sleep. I could have used another two hours but I had to head out early-ish to deliver my sons to their appointed Sunday morning commitments (a Super Smash Bros tourney and gymnastics training). I’m not quite ready to head to the gym to punish myself for last night’s indiscretions via exercise and a sauna, but that will come soon enough.

Sitting in a coffee shop, I am concentrating on my tale of woe as an irritating Chatty Mom beside me actively and loudly describes every single event in the passage of time to her four year old. “Yes look I got you the toy! Your sandwich has crispy bacon and tasty sauce! No your brother cannot drink orange juice and mommy forgot so you can have it!”. Jesus H Christ, one can see why she is a single mom. I am sure dad, well perhaps “dads” left or more likely jumped in front of a fast moving vehicle utilizing their meagre knowledge of kinetic energy to end their suffering.

But I digress.

I have or more accurately had a hangover because my wife and I went to see a friend’s comedy set at a local club last night then another friend’s show at a local pub.

“Mommy is this real fire? Is it fake? I need to go pee! Can I go to the boys by myself?”

I’m going to tell her off. I know it.

I cannot drink anymore. More accurately I can certainly drink but I cannot handle it the next day unless I cocoon in a bed for twelve hours, which a man in his late forties cannot do if he has children and a spouse and responsibilities. I have all of these.

Chatty Mom is actually upon review kind of MILFy. I can see how a guy, especially a young inexperienced guy, maybe a drunk guy, could get tricked into hooking up with her. One might be able to actively ignore her yappy nature given her physical bangability. I can see one waking up one moening five years in, having an epiphany: “Holy crap, she never shuts up and now we have a four year old that also never shuts up and I need to escape I think I hear a transport truck, why am I in the middle of the highway oh well.” Splat.

I first realized that my body cannot handle much booze way back in the mid-nineties. I went out with a dentist friend of mine quite early. It was a Tuesday night, that being the night the ever rotating crowd of young twenty something women and men went to a local dance club we frequented in the hopes of convincing the women of said group to go home with us (separately, get your head out of the gutter). We ate, played trivia, drank, laughed, hit on waitresses and found ourselves quite tanked yet it was only ten in the evening. The young barlettes began to appear and we decided what the hell, let’s keep drinking. I found my way home, carless of course, at about two in the morning. At some point in the middle of the night I woke and promptly threw up in a box of books I had just received from my father’s estate (having gotten lost in the apartment in the dark). I woke again round about eight in the morning and phone in to my work, leaving a message that I was unwell (!) and would not be available until the following day at least.

The pervasive odour of my night time visit to my late father’s tomes woke me again at ten in the morning. I was shall we say, probably someone who should have been sent to the local hospital emerg for monitoring, but instead I decided to punish myself. I showered, took lots of advil and left to walk the long walk to get my car. It was a hot, dusty Wednesday and traffic was loud. I trudged, sunglasses firmly glued to my face, the three kilometers to the dance club and arrived at my car feeling pretty good actually. I had sweat out the effects of the night before. I reached in my pocket and found no keys. “Jesus Fuck” I yelled like a crazed hobo and sat on the hood in anger.

Milfy Chatty Mom and screaming Chatty Child are now leaving. She gives me a wan smile of “ugh” as she passes. I smile back. Totally bangable if I was sing, twenty-five and insane.

I would walk back and take a cab to my car later but first I needed a few groceries. I walked across the road and a subsequent parking lot to the grocery store. Lunch food, a bag of milk and wow, watermelon on sale. No, I did not need another bag. I’m a fit young man, I can carry all this back just fine.

No, No I cannot.

One third of the way back, I stopped for a breath and pondered my bad choices. I was actually feeling worse now, the sun, lack of water and THE GOD DAMN TEN POUND WATERMELON were contributing to the relapse.

Two thirds of the way back I debated tossing the watermelon in the ditch but I truly LOVE watermelon. Love it. I would rather eat it than steak. If I had to choose three things to have for a solid year on a desert island it would be diet coke, watermelon and roast chicken. I couldn’t just leave it here. I couldn’t assume someone would leave it alone, I know hobos frequently inject drugs intro fruit. I continued.

Home again, I actually dropped to the floor inside the door. The apartment was warm, no AC, the smell of vomit rising. I decided to make some more.

Eventually, I recovered, threw out said box of books and went to bed, lesson learned, for a while.

I have learned this lesson many times.

I have learned it again today.

Milfy Mom is loading Screaming Baby into rusty car. She looks like she needs a drink.

I’m off to the gym.

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