Feeling Accomplished (Also, Ashamed)

After a rather rough day (week, month, what have you) I conned Cirque into letting me come over for "just a small glass of wine." I promised to be out of her hair in time to let her get dinner and call her mom, so we set the limit to an episode of House. (Hugh Laurie + pinot noir = the best I've felt in weeks.)

We split a bottle and downed it over the course of one episode, with the commercials Tivo-ed out. That's not all that long, really, considering the body processes one drink an hour.

The sad part? I feel dead sober. I could drive. I could take a standardized test. I could talk to Inappropriate Sexual Interest without making a single inappropriate comment. That's how sober I am.

I am very, very close to the tolerance I developed senior year of college. Considering The Manhattan Project of second semester, that's a little terrifying. After the Manhattan Project I actually had to stop drinking for a while just to assure myself I didn't need to consume alcohol on a daily basis. (How the hell did I graduate with honors? It's like tootsie pops: the world may never know.)

I don't know how I've developed this tolerance: I haven't gained weight, I haven't been eating obscene amounts, and I actually haven't been drinking that often. Accepting my new tolerance at face value, I consider the primary advantage to be that I am much more likely to effectively pump coworkers for information at informal get togethers and the primary disadvantage to be that I am no longer a cheap drunk.

It's a mixed bag, as you can see.

In an effort to finally unwind after these hellish weeks I'm tempted to have another drink but 1) drinking to solve problems is a bad idea and 2) I only have champagne and liquor in the house. (So decadent!) So instead I'll curl up with a good book, which is like a cocktail but not quite.

Oh Jack. Oh Stephen. You're my anti-drug.

Side Note- The writing has not flowed this easily for months! Maybe a half bottle of wine is my writer's block cure. If so, I'd better stock up and get back to poor John, who's been trying to check his email for, oh, weeks now. Poor John.