The Bottom Of A Glass

Yesterday, I conducted an experiment. I returned home from work, showered the recycled plane-air smell off of me, and then sat down to futz around on the computer. I wanted a glass of wine but I knew myself too well...One glass would lead to two to three and so on and so forth onto a possible AA meeting. But I wanted my head clear so I could head on down to the gym the next morning RIGHT when it opens at 0500. Plus, I didn't want that spacey/semi-buzzed/hangover headache that I am all-too-familiar with...I have annual retraining sessions this week and I didn't want the recovery-time to affect that in any way. That's safety-related, after all... SO...I poured myself one glass of wine...and placed it on the kitchen table over in the corner. (I have a box of Franzia Sunset Blush in the fridge. Wine-snobs pick up a rock and wind up your pitching arms...) That way, every time I wanted to have a sip, I'd actually have to get up from my chair. Seemed to work. Had a glass of wine over the course of an hour. By that time, I was ready for bed. (Downstairs on the couch because upstairs was so hellishly hot.) Therefore, I was just buzzed enough to enjoy it and wind down...without the painful aftereffects. (The slightest haziness the next morning but nothing that would prevent me from heading down to the gym and indulging in a 2 mile run in the soupy humidity. No one knows better than I that I have a touch of alcoholism in me. (Right...It's more like a hearty slap on the back from a big, belching drinking buddy whose breath could easily send lesser mortals on a pink-elephant-sighting stupor...) I really DO like to drink. Especially in the company of good friends. But I like to think that I'm still cognizant of the possible effects that alchohol might have on upcoming events and the folks around me. A dram for thought...