Coffee
All day. Every day.
I don't drink so much anymore. I stopped altogether a couple years back for some meds I'd just gotten on and it wasn't much of a sacrifice. Living with an alcoholic for so many years I'd pretty well lost the taste for it a long time ago, just a glass now and again for PMS, or with the ladies. When he got sober it seemed rude to keep it in the house.
But I still have those days once in a while, those never-ending days where the little things keep on going wrong, where the pen snaps, and the sauce spills, and there's only crap on the radio and the phone calls are all bad news and all my conversations are awkward and nothing comes out the way I mean it, even the important things. I get to the end of one of those days, like today, and the idea of putting my feet up on a lawn chair and killing half a bottle of syrah and just unplugging for some hours sounds just right.
I've even got a bottle in on the counter from my houseguest last weekend, I could go grab a vinegary glass of it right now and try to get a little softer around the edges. But the idea of it and the actuality of it are two different things, and I'm trying to figure out how to smooth out my own edges.
Instead I think I'll sit right here, in the evening light with the Beatles and the kitty and the Lucydog, listening to the airplanes pass overhead and the boy (who we played Blackbird for, the very first minute we got him home from the hospital) noodling around inside the house, and think about how soft I am, really, on the inside, and how these moments, days like this, like every other thing, are fleeting, you know? Impermanent.
28 Jul 208
All day. Every day.