Today I mostly feel like I’ve been hit by a train. It’s been a sudden, savage energy slump after a few very upbeat and perky days, and I’ve got very little wherewithal remaining to come up with some snappy sentences about how Tuesdays are particularly splendid when they’re sober.
But just like Wiley Coyote (is it just me, or did the spelling and the pronunciation of coyote always seem weirdly at odds with one another?) who managed to scrape himself off canyon floors and train tracks and cliff faces with random tunnels painted onto them, and kept on pursuing that darned Road Runner, I’m picking myself up and keeping going.
I’m a bugger for wanting everything to be sorted, perfect, fixed RIGHT NOW. I scheduled four gym sessions for this week, because I’m not drinking now and so I’m transforming into a fit, healthy, go-getting person who flicks her long, shiny hair and pops on the Nike gym pants and gets stuff done with all my extra sober energy. No more excuses, right?
So explain to me why instead of being in the gym, I’m curled up on the couch in a small ball.
I mean, I keep reading brilliant sobriety memoirs which extoll the benefits of the new, virtuous sober lifestyle and the joys of a richer, sprightlier, active-er life…
…EVENTUALLY, Andie. They extoll the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed vigour that comes with getting sober EVENTUALLY.
It’s day 11. It’s too soon. I’m setting myself up to fail if I keep on looking around and wondering why it’s not all bloody fixed yet. You can’t chase Roadrunners if you can barely stand up. Put the Acme anvil down, Wiley: it’s not going to work out well for you.
Anyway, that would explain the 7pm pyjamas, the cup of lemon and ginger tea and the weary sighing you can hear from This Sober Girl Towers. I’m Netflixing-and-not-wine-drinking tonight, and that. Will. Do. For. Now.