This Wagon Wheel's On Fire

An unnamed friend of mine is currently on the wagon.

For various reasons, all of which are perfectly sensible, he's off the booze until Friday. His 59th birthday.

Now I've made the mistake of going down this slippery slope before.

After all, the reasoning behind periods of abstinence (even mini-ones) is indeed sound. The effects of a too-boozy lifestyle are all too familiar, a random six of which are:

1. Waking at 3am, de-hydrated, confused and a with a black depression nailing my head to the pillow.

2. Loss of memory other than 'I think I spent the entire party in the kitchen arguing the non-existence of god'.

3. A fleshy lifebelt around my waste pushing at every shirt that isn't part of my 'knocking around the house' attire.

4. Loss of sense of self after forgetting the last time I didn't have to keep aforementioned stomach held in while in company (or even passing own mirror, alone).

5. Attitude to career that would be helped by being a little more verse, verse, chorus, verse and not the Captain Beefheart covers band that informs mine.

6. The inability to see the money that turns to beer then too piss as the same money that should buy fresh vegetables.

So being on the wagon isn't a ridiculous place to be. For a little while, anyway.

Because all that being said, as I sit hear listening to Bongo Fury with a pint can of the Artois for company I feel perfectly happy.

At least as perfectly happy as it's reasonable to feel.

But one thing I'm determined not to do, and it's a stronger feeling than any paternal inklings or career wrigglings, is to confuse healthy, quiet, focused sobriety with happiness.

Because considering I reckon I'd be an on and off miserable bugger with an expanding waist anyway, I might aswell have a little drink while I'm at it.