
My father is a drunk. Not a mean or abusive one, just a soggy Scotch sponge. One evening 28 years ago, shortly after moving to New Orleans, I was sitting on the curb in a tequila induced haze when I realized I was turning into my father. Since that was not really a goal I wanted to pursue, I stopped drinking. Right there, right then. I didn’t struggle with it, I didn’t have relapses, I just quit. One of the finest services a parent can ever provide is as a role model. Or a warning.
So now, all these decades later, I’ve realized I don’t have to be him. I can actually have a drink without following it up with so many that I turn into a sloppy muddle. Case in point: Tuesday evening, I met up with the Urban Street Pirate and R Man after work for cocktails at Moby Dick’s, an almost stylish bar in the Castro. Don’t judge, it’s next door to where we were headed for dinner.
I boldly ordered a Cosmopolitan. Yes, it’s true. I drink like the girl in your 9th grade class who listened obsessively to the cast recording of Cats, could never get a date, and ordered drinks based on the fact they’re so Sex and the City and they’re pretty.
One drink, after which I insisted we go on to dinner rather than sticking around to get blotto. I have an absolute will of iron. Plus I was already tipsy off one damn Cosmo. Hmm. I started out worried I’d turn into my father the lush and wound up as a girl-drink lightweight. Maybe that’s progress, I’ll take it.
No doubt, Mr. P, your liver and other internals thank you for your mostly sober lifestyle.
ReplyDelete"The much more user friendly first person pronoun"? Miss Janey wonders what ever does Mr. P mean?
I used to be a decent drinker, myself. I don't know what happened. Lexapro and Tequila are SUCH a good combo. ;-P
ReplyDeleteYou are truly an inspiration and role model, Peenee!
ReplyDelete