baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lighter Than A Paper Airplane The roar of the morning was a bit too much for me. The sounds of my girl wrestling her clothing from the hanger, fishing makeup from the bottle and dragging the hair dryer out of the bathroom cabinet seemed abnormally loud to my ear canals. I feel hungover. And in many ways, I am. I don't drink much. In fact, most of my friends would say that I fit perfectly into the category of lightweight. So, when I'm in a bar (which is often) or in a club (just about every weekend), I stay away from the hard stuff-the drinks that would turn in my stomach and exit out through the indoor. Instead, I gravitate towards what my boss (a woman by the way) would call *chick drinks:* midori sours, tequila sunrise-anything with enough sweetness to cover up the otherwise bitter, ugly taste of alcohol. So, it's pretty easy to tell where I've planted my behind at a table. There will be several clear or brown drinks (jack and coke most likely or maybe even whiskey if the singer of the band is there) surrounding one brightly-colored (usually lime green) drink complete with that all important miniature umbrella protruding proudly above the rim of the glass. That would be my seat, my spot, my drink-thank you very much. But, last night was different. I still felt sick at the end of the day and, once home, headed straight to the medicine cabinet to down two or three shot glasses of the manliest drink of 'em all: Nyquil. Do you have any idea how much alcohol is in Nyquil? Check the bottle someday-you'll be surprised. That deep red stuff that clears out your sinuses and throat also has enough alcohol to knock you out-well, at least, enough to knockout a lightweight like me. I pounded it down and surfed the net for a while. I could feel the familiar warmth that starts at the belly and starts working its way out to the fingers and toes. It's a comfortable feeling-certainly nicer than the way I was feeling during my commute. My girl told me this morning that I was out cold by the time she got home. Doggo apparently made so much noise when she walked through the door, that she was afraid he had knocked something over in his enthusiasm to greet her. But, I was still in bed-unruffled by the noise accompanying her arrival -apparently barely conscious enough to slur something that sounded suspiciously like *howasyurdayiloveyoubyebyebabe.* She knew that I had been hitting the bottle. Maybe, it was the flushed look on my face. Maybe it was the smell of my breath. Or maybe it was the hint of Nyquil red that drooled out of my mouth and onto the pillow. Whatever it was, she knew enough to deviate from intelligent conversation. She let me sleep it off-knowing that the following morning I would acting as if I had spent the entire night listening to Dwight Yoakam and nursing a bottle of Jack. And she was right. I'm grateful that I don't have to be in my cube until 2 p.m. It's 10 p.m. now and I have two more hours before I need to get into my professional skin. Two more hours should be plenty of time to wrestle myself free from these cobwebs. Plenty of time to shake my lightweight ass into some sort of shape. Plenty of time. 10:09 a.m. - 2001-03-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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