I Fought the Bottle (And the Bottle Won)

In the last month, I have been drunk exactly two times.

The first week of January I was in Victoria with the Sidekick, and he decided he was going to "educate" me about dark beers. Somehow that evening turned into a two-man pub crawl, and the next morning was the worst I've felt since I was thirteen and had Mono.

Last night I was with the Sidekick again, and the culprit was wine. There were many, many good bottles that were sampled, enjoyed, and demolished. Between the two of us and his parents (it was their wine, after all) I think we polished off five bottles.

I woke up this morning feeling horrible.

From this, I've learned two things:

1) The Sidekick is a bad influence. (However, he does have numerous beneficial qualities, so I'll keep him around.)

2) I just can't fucking drink anymore.

Since I hit the big four-o last year, I just can't seem to handle my booze. I don't put away as much as I used to, it hits me harder, and I feel absolutely disgusting for at least a day or two afterwards.

I toughed out a four-mile run this morning just because I hoped it would make me feel better, and maybe getting a good sweat going would get my body back to normal. (It did help, but was the most unenthusiastic run since man began walking upright.)

I think my only choices to improve the situation are to either quit drinking entirely, or start some sort of progressive training plan where I incrementally increase the amount I drink each week - sort of like a marathon training plan for my liver.

I'm pretty sure it'll have to be the first one - my liver just twitched as I was typing up that last sentence - I'm pretty sure it would move out if I attempted to follow that plan.

For now I'll just suffer in relative silence, and hope that the next time the Sidekick rolls into town I dimmly remember the way I felt this morning.

Good luck with that, eh?

Later.