Yesterday was a booze-filled day, though none of it my own. The male guests I’m with started the day dreadfully hungover. “Your way is the best way,” one said. Duh. I felt their pain and panic of having to get through that long part of the day where you’re not supposed to drink. Of course I would have just drank.
It’s been over a year since my last drink, but still I got that panicky feeling at dinner when they were pouring wine and I wasn’t sure what to do with my glass. Turn it upside down? Cover it with my hand? Throw it on the floor and stomp with an empathetic no way, mother fucker? These are the times I feel like the only non-drinker in the world. A misfit, an outcast.
One of my dinner companions commented that I did nothing to help them kill two bottles of wine (amateurs). Because he seemed genuinely interested, I expanded on my usual I don’t drink and said I once loved drinking, but then it turned bad for me. Sometimes I miss it, I admitted, but I’m much better off without. Then we bellied up to the bar where I had a seltzer and then went to bed because fuckit, seltzer isn’t beer.
This morning I ran along the inner harbor of Baltimore. The air was cool and crisp and hinted at autumn. I had been nervous about running in a strange city, but I needn’t have been. The path was wide and open and if I’d felt like trying 6 miles, I could have done a loop around Fort McHenry and its replica of the giant flag that inspired the Star Spangled Banner. Oh well. Next year.
I wanted to take a picture of the harbor or even how my funny shadow made it look like I was running on stilts, but I never run with my phone. This is what Baltimore looks like from safely inside a hotel. Still pretty pretty.