More exciting than a space shuttle launch countdown

This morning I woke up feeling like I had swallowed a bunch of ground up erasers.  Like, legit, it felt like I had a bunch of bits of rubber in my throat.  This may have had to do with the lunch I had at my friend Ravina's yesterday (bean and cheese pupusas) or the lack of roughage in my diet yesterday.  Couldn't tell you.  But I can tell you it definitely wasn't because of alcohol.

This will be the last weekend of Cocktail-free February™, and boy, I tell ya, it couldn't have come soon enough.  I knew going into this that everything that I'd hoped would happen--some minor weight loss, the sudden influx of energy, the naturally radiant skin, stabilization of sleep patterns--might not happen, and indeed, they did not.

What did happen is that I was able to live sans the sauce.  There were times when things were not as fun as they would have been with it, but things were still occasionally fun and sometimes even productive.  Of course, I knew all along that it would come to an end, so it wasn't like I was watching a dear friend die.  Rather, it was like said friend simply went off on vacation without me for a month, but will be coming back this Friday.  And won't it be great fun to see how Friday goes off with twenty six days sober days under my belt.

There were no enlightening realizations here, though.  No Lifetime movie-styled revelations.  When I don't want to drink, I don't.  I don't drink at work parties because they are, in part, still work as far as I'm concerned.  I wouldn't have drunk before going to Ravina's yesterday because I wanted to be sober to see and chat with her and meet her new baby.  I don't drink when I feel cruddy from drinking so much that I need to give my body a break, and because I know my tolerance is so high that drinking more will have no enjoyable impact.

So that leaves us at pretty much par for the course and eyeing the calendar for these last few days of this little experiment.

How dry I am and how wet I wish I was

Unsurprisingly, the second weekend of Cocktail-free February™ has not been nearly as novel as the first.  A few times, like when I glimpsed the vodka bottles at the back of the freezer or passed by a liquor store window, I had the thought of, "Fuck it!  Let's forget this shit and have a nip!  No one'll know!"

But I would know.  And my competitive side, which does not oft rear its head, challenged me to push on through.

Normally, the afterwash of endorphins from the week's gym visits would combine with the balm of alcohol over the weekend to compose a wonderful, sunshine-y feeling that really makes those two days worth living.  But, sans the sauce, I feel even more acutely than usual the gym fatigue.  Plus, the weight of sleeplessness I normally carry with me weighs even heavier without sugary mixers to combat it.

Yesterday, I tried cleaning and organizing the heap of CDs and DVDs under my desk, but my heart wasn't in it.  So I took a nap.  Then another.  It seemed like it barely put a dent in my sleepiness.

Also, I've realized that the hope of losing a few pounds may be for nought.  Without the deluge of alcohol as part of my caloric intake over the weekend, I'm instead eating regular food.  Saturday, that regular food consisted of a vegan sandwich, pico de gallo chips, a Pelligreno, and, breaking my rule of avoiding refined sugars, some chocolate chip cookies.  They didn't have trans fat, but still.  My argument with myself was that if I can't drink, I'm not going to suffer with what I eat.

I did make a productive day out of the holiday today by doing some clothes shopping, but the walk I took afterwards was cut short by my sense of general ennui and achiness.

Ten more days of this shit, then we poppin'.

Pain, pain, go away. Come again no other day

And today, on the tenth day of Cocktail-free February™,  I was awakened around 6:00 am by aching pains in my legs.  Normally, these sorts of pains are reserved for Sunday morning, when my body decides to begin recovering from the week's gym routine.  And it hurts like a mutha.

In fact, one Sunday morning a few years back when I was with my trick paramour at the time, he began to engage in some bedroom play with me, but said gym fatigue nixed the deal.  The spirit was willing, as was one very crucial part of the body, but the rest of me couldn't move.

But this morning's agony was odd.  I had only gone to the gym once last week.  I did have some nice walks up hills over the weekend, but nothing out of the ordinary or too strenuous.  So I popped an Aleve in the hopes of getting in a few precious hours more sleep.

This is all of note because I'm watching with some interest to see how my body and brain react to the continued absence of alcohol.  Maybe my legs were just ready to jump off my body and race to BevMo at their earliest convenience?  Only the Lord Jesus up in heaven knows.

One down!

My first weekend of Cocktail-free February™ went off without a hitch.

I did much of the same shit I usually do on weekends, but also watched two whole movies, finished a video game, and cleaned off my desk, an unwieldy hodge podge of clutter, cologne samples, photos, and faggoty potions all coated with a fine layer of cat hair.  Next week, I will begin packing my old yearbooks and CDs, which are now clustered under said desk, which is intended to be my earthquake safe spot.

One thing I found funny about the weekend is that my little constitutionals around the city, which usually feel like they're a good hour or two when I'm on the drink, were more like forty five minutes or so.  Time slows to a comfortable crawl when you're havin' fun, I guess.  Amusingly enough, as I walked out the door Sunday, there were two fliers for some alcohol delivery service sitting right outside the building.  But it wasn't like there was a moment where I thought I would burst into flames if I didn't have something to drink.  I did feel that way, though, those several years ago when I last tried this little experiment.

I am very much looking forward to the supposed influx of energy that comes with being dry for an extended period of time.  Don't know if it will be nearly as awesome as that first swig after the month is up and my tolerance has dropped to a new all time low.  *cue sorority girl whooping*

Forty days and forty nights...give or take a dozen

I'm going alcohol-free--with the exception of hand sanitizer--for the month of February.  No, it's not in honor of Black History Month.  I just thought I'd give it a shot.  Of course, I'm hoping it will mean the pounds will drop away and that my circadian rhythms will stabilize and my skin will glow a radiant golden hue.  But I'm realistic.  It will be like a vacation, but without the actual fun.  And I have plenty of things to occupy my time.

My room, for one.  Tifferbee brought with her a steam cleaner when she moved in, and my carpet could definitely use a run through. In addition, I have all of my belongings from high school and college my mom shipped me a few months ago to put in storage  boxes.  And I haven't cleaned out my closet, which contains all manner of things of VPA's when he lived here, since I moved in some nine years ago.

Too, I can do things like watch movies and play video games.  I tried to go a month sober several years ago, but I think it was before I had internet at home.  This go round, I have plenty to occupy me.  

And who says I can't do my usual walks around the city?  Just this time, without a to-go thermos.

I'm not too nervous about it.  I just hope it is worth it to some degree.  I won't have to dread Monday mornings or terrible Tuesdays, at least.  And I'm leaving the last weekend of the month as a wild card--if I want to hop back on the sauce starting then, I shall.

Part of this has also been sparked by the fact that I had a wild, sleepless night over the winter holiday from which I'm still recovering.  I do not do well on missed sleep, and I swear, it's just snowballed for the past several weeks.  I'm not getting deep REM sleep and my gym routines are killing me because my body isn't recovering appropriately.  I have migraines due to sleeplessness, but just can't sleep.

So, raise a glass of virgin name-your-poison to February.  

Hometown for the holidays

The luggage is unpacked, the post-vacation melancholy is hovering in the air and the cat is atop his tower with visions of cat treats dancing in his head.

In spite of booking a hotel with two separate rooms--one for grandma, one for me--so I could steal away unnoticed and retain my privacy, I was lassoed in with the family for most of the trip. That's not a terrible thing, but I only got to spend one night with VPA and Aaron at Babycakes, a new cupcake and sweet drinks bar in The Crest that replaced a coffeeshop. This was partly my fault as I got there just two days before Christmas eve, so there was not a chance to hang with Renee and Rachelle, whom I have not seen in ages, because they, like most everyone else, were with their respective families. So we did the usual kind of banal stuff, going to Horton Plaza, Hotel del Coronado, Balboa Park and Seaport Village.

My sister's new little baby had colon problem, so was in intensive care the whole time. She and my mom were pretty emotionally exhausted and it was a bummer that I couldn't see and hold the little guy, though God bless cell phones 'cause they've taken several pictures. His surgery was today and it went well, so we're hoping for the best.

I seemed to have spent a small fortune, primarily on food, as I treated everyone to dinner a few times and discovered just today that I paid for grandma's valet parking for the duration of her stay. So much for getting that one credit card bill down to a decent balance, but it's got a low interest rate and hell, it's the holidays.

I drank like a fish, too. I am also approaching this fact with the same sort of laissez-faire attitude as my finances, but am reminded by my encroaching girth that it will be of necessity to do the four days a week at the gym routine I had been so committed to the first three-fourths of this year.

I still have another nine days of fun and freedom to be had in the City. Tifferbee's birthday is next week, and I'm taking her to the chi chi French restaurant across the street and possibly cocktails at the Top of the Mark. Any chance to be bourgie, I'll take it.

VPA will be in town on the thirtieth, so we will most assuredly do Martuni's.

Twenty fourteen has been a good year, but they've all been good years for the past several years. I just keep waiting for some awful, fucked up thing to happen like an earthquake or heart attack or a car crash to wipe it all away. But thus far, I manage unscathed. Twenty fifteen will likely be somewhat tame as I need to commit to paying off my debt (weren't we just in this pickle?), but am already looking forward to next Christmas where we'll have baby Jay and my other sister's new baby with us all. And VPA and Mark are potentially aiming for November for their wedding. Tremendous.

I shall now go collapse in a vodka-soaked heap on the divan.

Ovah it

I need only look at the number of Uber charges to my credit card for the past two months to realize that they've been fairly stressful. Last week, I actually had a repeat driver who remembered taking me to work before, if that tells you anything.

It's the busy time of year, so it's to be expected, but it's still been rough. I sleep in late on workdays and end up having to catch an Uber into work so I'm not (too) late. Sometimes I even take one home. And with the exhaustion and migraine at the end of the day, I've been skipping the gym, sometimes going as little as once a week down from four times. This contributes to a cycle of me not getting tired enough from the gym to have deep REM sleep so I'm refreshed the next day and full of a sunshiney sheen of endorphins on the weekend.

Plus, of course, it means I'm getting fatter, too.

Although on that front, I've substituted one of my meals during the day with a big salad topped with veggie chicken nuggets. So hopefully, once I'm back on track, I'll see some results, so help me God.

They say people are happiest in the time leading up to a vacation, so I always like to have something planned even if it's months away. I'm visiting Dr. 90210 in November which will be a nice plus and a quaint little vacay away from work. And for Christmas, I'm planning to go down to SD along with my grandma and my sister and her family to spend the holiday with my baby sister and her new baby who is due in December. I'm going to put everyone up in a hotel, so while we'll be together, I'll still have some level of personal time and space. I haven't been back since 2008. With any luck, my high school homo buddies VPA and Aaron will be in town as well. It has been well over ten years since the three of us have all been in our hometown together at the same time.

This, too, is a hallmark of getting older--when you start measuring shit in increments of decades. Jesus H., Martha.