and I'm an alcoholic. So the Cubs didn't play last night, but the second-place Brewers lost to the Braves in Atlanta, increasing the Cubs lead in the NL Central to 1 1/2 games. And I was drinking about eight screwdrivers, watching TV with mother, and (when he got home) dad.
Roundabout 10, I'm getting pretty sleepy, and I'm trying to decide if I should have another drink. So I'm going to the kitchen with my glass, undecided whether to put it in the dishwasher or fill it full of delicious vodka, ice and OJ. When I get to the pantry, I discover that there are only about four, four and a half ounces of firewater left, so I go ahead and dump it all into my tall glass.
But, oh, footsteps! Dad is coming. I turn forty-five degrees to shield the drink, but it's too obvious, so I head to the freezer for a couple of ice cubes. Three splashes later, the glass is about two thirds full. I guess I must have miscalsulated, because I now have twelveish ounces of vodka and ice.
Ok, it's not a problem. I'll just take it upstairs, and slug it down first thing in the morning-- shave the hair off the dog, as they say. I've done it before, and it's the best cure for a hangover, bar none.
"Good night, good night," up the stairs, two more swallows, two tosses and two turns, and unconsciousness happens. End scene.
I woke up this morning at Six to the cheerful chirping of "Bell 3" on my phone. Nothing so aggravating when your tired and grumpy as an agressively cheerful device. or person for that matter. I reset my alarm for 6:30, rolled over, felt pangs of either acid stomach or guilt, and after thirty or so seconds of deliberation, kicked my legs off the side of the bed and got up. The tall glass of warm vodka stared at me from my nightstand.
But I did not go back to sleep. I did not drink the drink. I had a glass of water and ran two miles. I took a shower listening to music, I got in my car, and I got to work earlier than I ever had before. And then realized I had pulled a groin muscle while I was running.
If I had stayed in bed, or if I had drunk the drink and gone to work, I would be fine. Instead, it hurts when I walk fast. What does that tell you?
Actually, that tells you that you should have stretched. Nothing else. I feel great, I really do. But I am still looking forward to that glass of vodka waiting patiently for me on the nightstand.