Into the Drink

Sometimes I think I'd make a good alcoholic housewife.

Like today, for example. My feet trudge back to the refrigerator, ensconced in fluffy magenta slippers spattered with dirt. The dirt simply matches the greasy hair that hangs in my face, the crumb covered light pink bathrobe, and the dregs of coffee I sip from the bottom of my WEMU mug.

This day could be so BAD, if I let it. I could tip a spot of rum into the coffee, or perhaps a finger or two of Bailey's, sit back, and watch the world slip away.

I'm not angry or sad or depressed; just tired, from staying up too late, getting up too early and trying to get everything done for four little people. People who, at this point, need to become more independent, self-sufficient, and helpful to the old lady I am before a shower and clothes transform me.

I think you know this about me: I would never make fun of addiction, including alcoholism. I've seen the product of alcoholic families; I've coached students in the throes of the disease. But sometimes, it is easy to see how people can slip down that road. Thankfully, I've never been drawn to the drink myself.


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