I am only going to talk about this once.
Not because it is a touchy subject for me, but because talking about it could be absolutely wrong of me. I have been reading up on this on Google (again. What did we ever do before hair gel and Google? Were we just frizzy-haired know-nothings?), and I think I have the rules down pat. So here I go.
Your gal June likes her the wine. She has liked the wine since about ninth grade. And it liked her.
June, who suddenly needs to speak about herself in the third person, as though she were a member of the royal family, but who in this case is more a member of the Crown Royal family, was goooood at the drinking.
She could consume an entire bottle of Reunite Lambrusco between the 7-11 and her high school, which was one block away. She never threw up (except for once, after two bottle of pink champagne, which sounds so pleasant and feminine, doesn't it? Yeah, not so much when it is coming back up along the side of Kim Schwanecke's car). She never stumbled or got droopy eyes. Or any of those amateur things that other drunk high school girls did.
Through a series of unfortunate events, it became apparent after about, oh, 20 years or so, that perhaps your gal June should not be drinking the wine, per se. That perhaps it was getting a little out of hand.
So, now is the part where I cannot go into any more detail about that. Let's just say that from 2002 until this summer, not a drop of alcohol, nor any other mind-altering substance, touched my lips. Or her lips. Do I really have to continue in the third person? Thank you.
Now, between 2002 and the present, I realized more and more what a bad idea drinking had really been. All the time I thought I was having fun? Really what I was doing was avoiding everything. Meeting a potential romantic partner? Always did it drunk. Breaking up with someone? Drunk every time. Getting OVER a breakup? Oh, come on. Wine, please.
So, in essence, from ninth grade until 2002, I did not grow up at all, because I never learned how to do anything without a filter. I was so glad to be sober, and finally growing up and all that.
There Marvin and I were in Nashville, on our road trip to our new life. The new life I was convinced I would be fine with. Fine! Leaving all my friends? Fine! Leaving a big city, even though all my life all I ever wanted to do was live in a big city? Okay!
So in Nashville, I had a beer. Then I came here and had another beer.
By last week, I was back to drinking wine every night. I added it up, and from Sunday until Tuesday, I'd had over 10 glasses of wine. By myself. Alone in the house. Fun! Not at all a problem! Mmm-hmm! Go, June!
I had talked to an old friend about the fact that I was drinking again, and I told him that maybe on October 1st I would go back to not drinking. But I told him I had an issue with choosing October 1st as my sobriety date, because October had so many connotations with the color orange. Which I was not fond of.
My friend, who has known me -- wow -- 20 years now, said, "You know, anyone else? I'd say they were in denial, and avoiding what they had to do. You? I know being associated with orange is a legitimate concern for you."
Then the other night, Marvin and I turned a corner and there was that beautiful moon. That gorgeous, orange moon in the sky. And orange looked beautiful to me. And the next day, I saw a guy with an orange shirt, and his shirt had one word on it. That word was "Surrender."
So, for the moment, your pal June is a non-drinker again. It just seemed kind of a major thing to be not blogging about, but I'm gonna leave it out of the public eye from here on out. It breaks with certain traditions.
Besides, buying wine is hardly a necessary expense. I won't even let myself have Eclipse gum, for goodness sake.
No eclipse. Give me that full, orange moon.