It’s no secret: I’ve consumed my fair share of alcoholic beverages. I did so most foolishly and violently when I was underage. When I turned 21, my drinking habits changed rather dramatically. Not necessarily because I was finally able to go to bars; my ‘life situation’ had been altered somewhat abruptly and I just didn’t find it as much fun to get smashed. On a couple of occasions in the half decade since, I’ve managed to consume far more than I should, and there are a few other instances where I fell over the ‘pleasantly buzzed’ line down into ‘seriously tipsy.’ I’ve blacked out, fallen over, peed my pants (stupid zipper) and woken up wondering where my pants are. These were not good sides of me, and thankfully they are fading farther and farther into my past.
Yet, I’m still slurping away on a nice tasty beer. I have no intentions of becoming drunk or even buzzed. One beer. Did I “learn my lesson”? No I suppose not. I knew before I committed those indecencies that they were particularly embarrassing if not dangerous. And I can’t really say that I learned what my tolerance is… it fluctuates daily I think. And sometimes I will cry irrationally without any alcoholic influence whatsoever.
Some part of our human nature thrives on flirting with disaster. On occasion, with mistakes made comes an ounce of wisdom, and we decide to stop tight-rope walking that line. I guess you could say I’ve gained a little perspective. I figured out that I’d more often prefer being admired as a good person than a fun one.
Maybe that is the lesson I learned. Rachael 101, hm?


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