Confessions Of A Non-Alcoholic

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…