Saturday, January 23, 2010
Metamorphoses
It is a well known fact about my mother that after a single glass of white wine she becomes an intoxicated mess, making kissy faces at strangers and tossing off strange remarks about campaign finance reform or Jon Benet Ramsay. Of course, that single glass of white wine only comes about once every two years or so, but man, does it have an impact. If Quincy, Illinois had gossip blogs that covered university professors, they would absolutely be burning up over this one.
I mention all of this not because I think there is a market for a tell-all book about my mother (which would essentially be a single page including the above paragraph and a sentence about that time she ate a grape without paying for it at the supermarket), but because I fear I may be turning into her. For I had perhaps two glasses of red wine last night and found myself delivering ridiculous bon mots about how old people are far too fond of getting naked and why I don't like writing Facebook updates. Also I think my teeth turned purple, I'm not sure.
There was a time -- and it seems like long ago now -- when I could drink six vodka drinks, four beers, and something purple I found at the back of my fridge and still be reasonably put together. I'd just have six glasses of water and a piece of bread before bed and feel fine and dandy in the morning. That time is not now, however. It is, I fear, time for me to begin accepting my limitations.
It is a well known fact about my mother that after a single glass of white wine she becomes an intoxicated mess, making kissy faces at strangers and tossing off strange remarks about campaign finance reform or Jon Benet Ramsay. Of course, that single glass of white wine only comes about once every two years or so, but man, does it have an impact. If Quincy, Illinois had gossip blogs that covered university professors, they would absolutely be burning up over this one.
I mention all of this not because I think there is a market for a tell-all book about my mother (which would essentially be a single page including the above paragraph and a sentence about that time she ate a grape without paying for it at the supermarket), but because I fear I may be turning into her. For I had perhaps two glasses of red wine last night and found myself delivering ridiculous bon mots about how old people are far too fond of getting naked and why I don't like writing Facebook updates. Also I think my teeth turned purple, I'm not sure.
There was a time -- and it seems like long ago now -- when I could drink six vodka drinks, four beers, and something purple I found at the back of my fridge and still be reasonably put together. I'd just have six glasses of water and a piece of bread before bed and feel fine and dandy in the morning. That time is not now, however. It is, I fear, time for me to begin accepting my limitations.
