Sunday and Not Drinking?

Sunday. Again. Online. Again. But I don't feel the usual shitty.

My skin is slightly pink. Eyes: wide open. Hands: no shakes. Breath: toothpaste fresh. And what the hell is this feeling of awakeness?

Sitting here at the desk, typing, I closed my eyes for a brief moment and all the things I think I could accomplish flashed before me. There I am vacuuming. And singing. And there I am grocery shopping: chicken, vegetables, milk . . . milk for fuck's sake. On the senate floor: "Mister President, end this war." Oh, there I am in a field, twirling, arms spread wide to the sides. "The hills are alive with the sound of I'm not hung over."

What the hell is all of this energy? Is this how people who can handle their alcohol consumption and set three-drink limits feel? Is it how people who get more than two hours of sleep each night feel? I'm frightened.

How the hell did this happen? We did go out last night. We did see Dane's jazz quartet. I did embibe. But I only had two drinks. I wasn't sloshed. I held no fewer than three conversations without slurring words or my eyes drifting apart. I drove home sober. I undressed and put my clothes away rather than in a pile on the floor; then I put on pajamas and got into bed.

And then something happened in Whoville that hadn't happened in seventeen years: this drunk grinch went to bed, and slept. For eight hours.

Now it's the next day, and I'm not hung over. What will I do with myself?

First, I'm off to get coffee. Then, who knows.

Perhaps I'll take up smoking.