August 10, 2008
I wanted to be graceful. I wanted to be Myrna Loy, with the angel-sleeves and the marabou-tipped slippers. Satin nightgowns that I wouldn’t trip over.
Instead, well, I’m not exactly Lucille Ball. (I save that honor for this girl.) But I’ve been known to trip. To spill my drink. To walk into the occasional wall. And always, precisely when I’m trying not to.
I’m the one who laughs at inappropriate times. Who can’t wipe the smirk off my face. I’m used to this by now. I’ve grown accustomed to my behavior. But the other night, I surprised even myself.
I’d had a lot of coffee. More coffee than air, I think. The day went by in a blur, and in the evening, I reached for a bottle of wine, leftover from a party, brought by a friend. Opened the pink wine without thinking (no judgment, you), and drank a glass. Nothing. Still amped to the max. All right, glass number two. I’m a lightweight, you know. I’m "110 pounds of power," as one of my massage clients used to say. ("How can someone so small be able to grind the concrete from my grooves?")
Glass number three, and I’m getting worried. If you cut me open, java would be pumping through my veins. At this point, I decide to see exactly what type of fruity, bubbly pink wine this is.
Can you guess?
The non-alcoholic kind.
Why am I sharing? Because each time I open the fridge and see the half-full bottle (yes, ma’am, ever the optimist), I have to laugh.
Save me a seat by your side, Sommer.