Last night marked the first time since high school (or was that elementary school?) that I did not partake of an alcoholic beverage on NYE. I stuck to peach iced tea and hors d’ oeuvres. The kids actually made out better than me, as they chose sparkling cider with which to ring in the new year.
My decision to abstain was the right one, since my head didn’t feel like a well used volleyball this morning and I don’t have to suffer the sun as if my fangs were descendants of Nosferatu.
It’s pretty cool to greet the New Year with sobriety and 20/20 vision.I just may try it again some time before I turn eighty. Probably not.
So with a clear head and no porcelain throne prayers on the docket, I decided to take a ride this morning and wash my truck free of the three ton layer of salt which it had accumulated over the past week. I love winter.
The roads were so empty as to appear post-apocalyptic. The people who were out consisted of two camps- those who were just now headed home and those who had fallen asleep to the Back to the Future marathon long before Mayor Bloomberg screwed up the ball drop.
And there I was. Sober . . almost apologetically so. No breakfast cravings, no run for a pack of smokes, no trip to the pharmacy to grab a tub of ibuprofen, no phone calls to an ex girlfriend begging for another chance.
It was cool. In an Osmond family kind of way.
I need a drink.