The last time I went to the Carlyle to toast Tommy, their late bartender, after two sips I was pretty looped.
A red flag if there ever was one.
After swaying home I prayed, please God, don’t let this ignite my drinking.
You’re surprised I pray?
I live in that foxhole Hemingway wrote about, on my knees.
They say in AA, if you pray deeply enough…God, help me not drink anymore…he swoops in like an eagle taking you under his wing. Of course you must do your part like, honing your humility that when drunk goes down several quarts.
Not drinking is like cleaning your windshield. You may not like what you see, but at least it’s truthful.
One of my goals in the new year, is surrendering to truth across the board. I no longer want to pretend to be anything I’m not. Though from Connecticut, I didn’t go to a finishing school. I was raised by alcoholic wolves of Italian/Polish descent which may be too kind, since I’m sure wolves are better parents.
They threw me into a pricey prep school that was nothing but a playground for addicts and rich kids tossed from other schools, so I learned from the best how to stay high on anything from glue to pot to Taittingers.
So Miss Connecticut I was not.
I became a model because, after convincing me I was too stupid to be anything else, it was the only way to get my mother’s approval since looks were all she cared about. She loved telling people I was a Wilhelmina model boogalooing across the globe.
Of course, I was like a feral cat in model’s clothing, missing planes, busy sleeping off blinding benders waking up to some disco boy whose name I didn’t catch. Not too good for business. But my mother, who had sex for lunch, was my first role model, pun intended, teaching me everything I know.
It’s how you get attention, even if it only lasts 10 minutes. Now I want it from my writing I falsely sanitize so you’ll like me. I’m going to stop doing that, and it may not be pretty.
So I advise you to buckle up.
I’m 64 years old with lines on my face and half my hearing gone. I haven’t gotten laid in so long, I’m not even sure my parts still work. I’m alone, and it’s okay, since I’ve had more sex and romance than anyone else I know, including my mother.
But like any athlete, I finally hung up my number.
Everything ends after all. Even love, true or otherwise.
But I have memories and the clarity to write about them.
So you see, despite how it may seem, my blessings are still up a quart.
To thine own self be true, my mantra for 2019.
Happy New Year everyone.
To quote the great Anne Lamott…
And God bless you all good.