Except for a glass of bubbly on New Year’s Eve, I seldom drink alcohol. Not that I have anything against drinking in moderation: I just never developed much of a taste for it.
And my stomach never developed much of a tolerance for it.
One afternoon, when I was first married, my sister-in-law brought over a big bottle of wine – I don’t remember what the occasion was.
We spent the evening polishing it off, and for some reason, I really laid into it, so that by bed time, I was pretty well concreted – one level above plastered.
In bed, I felt like a storm-tossed passenger on board a heaving ocean liner, as I grabbed on to the bed post to keep from falling out. And my stomach ominously began to roll in time with the waves, until it finally reached a point where I knew an eruption was imminent. I bounded out of bed and made a run for it.
I’d waited too long. Halfway to the bathroom I doubled over and let go on the bare floor. Undaunted, I continued the run and made it to the bowl before the second wave hit.
Much relieved, I turned on the hall light to clean up the floor and, despite the job ahead, had to smile a bit, surveying the mess.
There, in the middle of the puddle, was a bare footprint. I’d partly emptied the stomach, and then kept going, right through the puddle.
To this day, whenever I see a wine bottle, I think of that footprint.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I don’t’ drink…