Once upon a time I had a complex about drinking alone.
What a sad thing to do, to sit by ones self and pour a glass of wine. It means you have no friends and why would you waste alcohol alone?
If only I could go back in time and pat my sweet little self on the head. How precious.
I have no such complex now. Or shame, which could mean one of two things: 1) I have arrived at a state of such deplorable loneliness that the only way to mask it is drinking a bottle of wine in my bed. Or 2) I've realized the medicinal purposes of alcohol.
pssst. It's #2.
It's not so much about getting drunk and being somebody as it is about sleeping. It's also a salve for frayed nerves, it removes gray hairs and elicits conversation that has nothing to do with deadlines, copy editing or assigning stories.
For the concerned among you, I don't drink alone every day and I don't drink for breakfast.
But hands off my gas station wine and burrito. That's what's for dinner.
*I didn't say it. Gladys did.