You can count on the bourbon and a good lay to help you relax. Always. At least, that’s my go-to therapy. When I’m in a pinch, I just settle for the bourbon. It’s a lot less hassle, and I don’t have to wash the sheets.
These are things I can count on, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
Choose your own poison; wine, men, caffeine, women, your personal brand of kink, a smoke. As long as you’re not abusing them, these things are black and white things in life. The sure things. The things you can count on no matter what. The things that help our wee little homosapien brains cope with the deluge of the unknown.
Floundering in the grey area requires finesse, grace, and a that je ne sais quoi equivalent of giving the world the finger as you step blindly into the abyss.
Most days I function quite well. I dress the part, look the part, I even walk and talk the part. I high-step through the grey as if I’m the Duchess of Grey, the Matron of Mystery and the High Priestess of the Unknown.
Other days call for ibuprofen, curse words, and a non-stick ego. Having enough of those days consecutively calls for the summoning of one of your go-to-evils. Mine happen to be bourbon and boys. Adult boys.
Now, having said that, I want neither my booze or my boys to control me. I do not want them to bring me to my knees, make me cry, or question my self-worth. My booze and boys shall not cause any drama in my life. They shall not bring ugly company into the relationship like cigarettes or crazy ex’s.
You know what I mean; if I’ve had too much bourbon, I might, maybe, I could possibly give in to a craving for a cigarette. At that moment it becomes clear the bourbon is not good for me. At that point I must walk away, even if there’s a smidge of liquid gold in my tumbler. In the same way, if a boy brings complications to my life, like say crazy ex’s or passive-aggressive badgering, I must also walk away.
Within every situation is a tipping point. Unfortunately we must often be pushed over the edge in order to recognize the edge of that tipping point. Unfortunately when the path over the edge becomes habitual, taking another route is uncomfortable until you get used to it. Since (I’m assuming), you’re all adults reading this, you will agree that as adults, new routines, relationships and lifestyles are always uncomfortable. We’re damn good at avoiding being uncomfortable, even if it means sacrificing a lifetime of joy.
So, after a week or two of topsy-turvy man-issues, a grueling professional schedule, and all the joys of single parenthood, I turn to a candle-lit bathtub filled with hot water, and a tumbler of bourbon.