I used to have a glass of wine after work because I was stressed. It would ease my muscles out of their knots and allow me to sink into the couch. Slowly, the problems at the office would be revealed as silly. Slowly, I could lay myself to a restful sleep.
There were nights I would say, “just one more,” ten times over. The numbness of the drunken stumble home was easier than dealing with the anxiety of the next day constantly weighing on my brain.
Everything at work was centered around how many glasses of wine you had the night before. Where happy hour was tonight.
A culture of constantly skating by.
Three months at home and the fridge was always stocked. Dealing with the thick air of a full house drew my fingers to the bottleneck without my knowing.
On the road and I order a drink with every meal, but I don’t understand it. I am free of the worry, free of the stress, but the words leave my lips before I can catch them. The order is placed and I cannot counteract it.
But if I am now only ordering one with dinner, what is the point? Is this simply a habit I cannot break?
I see the fools on Bourbon Street and denounce them. Why do I hold on to their same vice?