Don’t Judge Me

I’ve written before about my love of liquor. I am not proud to admit this, but I am realizing more and more that I am not exactly embarrassed to say it either. I like to drink. Period. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that it gives me more patience with the kids, makes me more laid back, willing, open to playing and dancing and doing nails and being silly. I do not like, however, the oldest girl making comments like “Mommy, you’re in a good mood today” on a day when I’d been drinking since 9 that morning. I most certainly was in a good mood by noon that day. Yes, yes, I was.

I also dislike wanting a drink so much. I can be on the train, at work, at a school function for the kids, in the grocery store, driving, at a family gathering, at the movies, in Target — all are par for the I want a drink now course. I dislike feeling tired shortly after consumption (it is a depressant, after all. Bite me, please). Or trying to mix a drink or swig straight from a bottle without a child strolling in seeing my bottle of shame. This is a secret, dammit! Why do you walk so lightly?

I left the house today with the intent of getting diapers from Target. I found myself in Safeway’s parking lot first, running in to get a six pack of my current drink of choice: Smirnoff Ice. Sure, it’s not hard liquor, but that’s my concession (to my family, I suppose) since I need to be able to fully function with three kids (fully being a completely idiotic and unrealistic adverb in this case): drink, but drink lightly (they’re so needy!). I don’t think the entire six pack could get me even close to feeling drunk, but understand, drunk is not what I seek. The lightheaded tipsiness, the edge of the day off, is all I need. Wow, I just said need. Let me correct myself. I don’t need alcohol, and certainly not the Smirnoff Ice’s measly 5%. I am saying this rather indignantly as though you can hear me and I fear I’m being too forceful. Forcefulness on others to see that you don’t have a problem could signify a problem, so…I’ll just say…wait, what was I saying?

I like to drink. And I don’t want to be persecuted for sneaking a friggin’ beer (or malted beverage, whatever it actually is considered) before the PTA meeting. I do, however, believe that I need to stop (at least as much as I am imbibing lately; oh, um, yeah — today’s six pack turned into a box of 12 because it’s way more economical). I need to stop because the pooch is out of control. I think the carbonation from the Ice and caffeine from the Pepsi are attacking my insides forcing my stomach outward. I look like I’m four and a half months pregnant on any given day. If I eat a normal sized meal as well…ridiculous.

So, I wonder what this post is for, actually. Usually I’m more purposeful in my rants. Am I seeking help? Um, nope. I don’t have a problem, remember, so I need not your assistance conquering the beast of semi- but not quite-alcoholism. Maybe I just needed to see it all typed out in hopes that my vanity would win and I’d stop the malted beverages to decrease the pooch size. This would of course thrust me into the waiting arms of Jose Cuervo. Interesting. I’ll continue to ponder what it all means as I dream of entering the house and promptly grabbing a cold one, then holing myself up in the bathroom downing it quickly, emerging with a smile that was not there before.

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