Resolved?

4:30 am, January 1, 2005. While kneeling on the bathroom floor, sweating profusely, saliva gushing, staring at the toilet bowl, waiting for the toxic gurgling blend of partially digested appetizers and alcohol to heave from my body, I had a few moments to ponder my resolutions for the new year.

Two seemed most urgent: (1) don't get drunk and (2) don't be me.

I drink very little, which is a problem when I drink because, drinking very little, I have very little tolerance for what I drink. So when I find myself at a social occasion where drinks are served, and I'm in the imbibing mood, I tend to imbibe too much, racing from the warm glow of well-being to the cold sweats before I realize what I've done.

Thankfully I'm a quiet drunk, often not realizing I'm over the edge until after I've returned home and stumbled into bed, when the world starts spinning madly and I dream feverishly of being possessed by the demon rum, ending up kneeling on the bathroom floor at 4:30 am resolving never again.

It's difficult for me to straddle the worlds of drinking and temperance. I suppose I could try to drink more in 2005, building a tolerance for alcohol and, hopefully, developing a finely calibrated internal drink-o-meter that would flash a warning light before my tank fills, but I suspect that way would just lead to more worshipping of the porcelain god at 4:30 am and, ultimately, to alcoholism.

Or I could give up alcohol entirely, something I'll seriously consider if, in 2005, I again find myself blowing chunks at 4:30 am.

For now, though, I'll try to enforce a one drink maximum per function and see if that works.

My other resolution -- don't be me -- is a hardy perennial. When I'm honest with myself, I realize that all those resolutions I've made and broken over the years boil down to one fundamental resolution: don't be me. I am deeply flawed, prone to do the same stupid things each year and then resolve not to do them in the following year. If I could just stop being me, I would stop this cycle of stupidity.

Of course, being me, I can't stop being me, so I expect 2005 will continue my lifelong demonstration of the immutability of my stupidity, forcing me in 2006 to again resolve not to be me.

Comments

[Eddie Thomas]

I resolve to not be you too.

[stephenesque]

Being you isn't so bad, it seems to me. Or are we going tohave to go through the whole It's A Wonderful Life thing .... again.

[Dr. Monty]

It's a good thing I happened across your site, Outer Life. And just in time.

First off, you must look this drinking problem in the eye and see it for what it is. NOT a drinking problem, but a drinking opportunity.

Think about it. A bit of drink makes for more fun. It makes for more honesty. It makes for a more sociable Outer Life, am I right? Of course I am.

Also: You say you want to quit being you. Well, have a drink -- have two or three and be anyone you want.

Just the thought of it gets me so excited I have to quit posting for a moment so that I can pour myself two fingers of whiskey (let's make that three fingers).

Alright, here I am. Back and better than ever. What could be better than a few fingers of whiskey, after all? I know, a few fingers of whiskey AND a pint of Guinness.

Now we're cookin' with gas. KA-BOOM!!

And if you're honest (which you're definitely more likely to be now that you've had a stiff drink), you'll admit that you can be just about anyone you want with a little help from Johnny Walker or Jim Beam. Beats the hell out of stopping by Misspent's place for a cup of instant hot chocolate. (By the way, did you hear that Misspent is standing for Congress? Well, that's another story.)

Now about this 4:30 in the AM problem. Get a dog. That's right. Here's how it works:
1) Drink all you like.
2) Eat plenty (just don't put food on an empty stomach).
3) Pass out around 3:00. I'm sorry, I mean: Go to sleepy bye at around 3:00.
4) Wake up with sweats at 4:30.
5) Blow your lunch all over the floor at 4:31.
6) Dog licks it all up at 4:32.
Problem solved. You now feel better and go to sleep. Owing to the content of the vomit (food enriched) old fido licks the floor clean so that you face no ugly, smelly mess in the morning. And, as an added benefit, you do not have to bother making bowser anything to eat in the morning. Everyones happy!

A bottle of booze and man's best friend. That's all you need to get a new lease of life in 2005. And, I promise, you'll be a totally new man in no time.

Don't thank me. Just get me a drink.

Cheers!

[Mr. Peperium]

Thank you Dr. Monty, founder and president-for-life of that fine organization, Alcoholics Unanimous.

[Diana]

Wonderful entry. I was laughing from the first lines and fighting tears by the end...

[Mr. Peperium]

Ok, first let me echo Diana's comment about Monty's post. He is undoubtedly correct about the drinking opportunity and the positive impact a member of the K-9 fraternity would have on your domestic set-up.

That said, I find some inconsistencies with this so-called "problem" of yours. What is a man with a self-imposed one-drink maximum doing with a blog that features a picture of P. G. Wodehouse at work? Wodehouse is the 20th Century's preeminent bard of the bottle, the master of the martini. Who could forget Percy Pillbeam's encounter over the shaker with Butler Beech? Or Horace Pendalbury Davenport's attempt to "get outside oneself" in London at the urging of Uncle Fred (who, for the best of motives, is pretending to be the eminent brain specialist, Sir Roderick Glossop?) C'mon Outer Life, what's with the portraiture if you're not going to live up to it?

Secondly, I wouldn't worry about alchoholism. At least not yet. I have no idea how old you are, but I'll hazard the guess that at about your age I too was in the process of establishing my own internal drink-o-meter, and a good thing, too. It has seldom failed me. Of course with age comes marriage and with marriage--provided you're doing it right--comes children. And children, my dear Outer Life, are the real solution to all your difficulties.

For one thing, baby sitters get paid by the hour and always need to be home early in order to attend some regional kickboxing or tabor-hurling tournament on the morrow, which always necessitates you and the little missus calling it a night some time soon after the first sip. Second, on those evenings when you're imbibning at home, children present a natural obstacle to over-indulgence (I'm not saying that don't at times also cause one to muse on thew possibility of over-indulgence, but they end up being a greater barrier than inspiration in this department). With children, you just can't be off-duty that long. Nursing a morning head and playing ride-em cowboy just don't go together.

And as to your problem about not wanting to be you, well, the answer once again is "children". Children take you out of yourself to such a breathtaking extent that you'll start missing the old you. Not, I add in haste, that you'll ever want to go back (I surely don't) but the prespective they provide on who you are and what your life is really all about is the true answer to both your problems.

No, wait a minute. Forget it. Mrs. P just said that you're my age and you have two children who are about the same ages as our two. Forget everything I just said. Boy, have you got problem