Beer. It’s what’s for dinner.
On Monday night, GTB, our friend E, and I went for a long walk around Mt. Tabor. It was a lovely night and the hour+ stroll was the perfect half-workout. I therefore felt completely justified ordering the Mac and Cheese at the Hedge House when we were done. And, because it’s almost Memorial Day Weekend, and no one should stay dry on the first unofficial weekend of summer, I also ordered a beer.
Half way through the beer, I heard myself chattering away about something not particularly interesting (nipples, maybe?) and pushed the beer away declaring, “Whoa, I’m getting loaded!”
Last night, I went to listen to GTB lay down some acoustic guitar tracks on the album his band is working on. Before, though, we had Mexican food. And a Pacifico. So when he bought Sierra Pale Ales for the recording, I helped myself to two of them.
Tonight, I’m having drinks with two of the loveliest ladies in all of PDX. I went to the gym this morning, so I feel OK about imbibing, within reason.
I’ve resigned myself to the fact that this month of sobriety is over. Am I rationalizing? Of course. But I feel like three weeks (with the exception of mimosas on Mother’s Day) on the wagon proved what I needed to know about me and drinking.
Yes, I feel better when I’m not drinking regularly. Yes, I save money when I’m not drinking. Yes, I think I’d lose weight if I stopped drinking. Those are all really good things to know. So my little experiment was a success.
But now I’m back to drinking. And I feel fine about it.
Until I read this. I’m not of Eastern European descent, so I’m not terribly worried this could EVER be me. But good God, man! Does this guy have a functioning liver?