Under The Wagon

Your Results:
Based on your Responses: It is likely that your current drinking patterns are hazardous or harmful to your health and well being. Your responses to the AUDIT (Alcohol Use Disorders Identification Test) are in a range believed to be consistent with problems related to drinking.
More than 96% of the general adult American population and 99% of women consume fewer drinks per week than you reported consuming.
Recommended Action: Because your results indicate that your drinking patterns may be hazardous or harmful, consider seeking further evaluation from your doctor or other qualified health professional, who can help you determine if your alcohol consumption is adversely affecting your health or interfering with your work and relationships. http://www.alcoholscreening.org/screening/results1.asp?ID=212501



99th percentile, huh? I always did test well.

My brother and I were discussing our respective drinking "adventures" (I refuse to call them problems).  I mentioned that a friend recently asked if Mark and I thought we were alcoholics.

"I didn't know it was even a question," Says Mark.  His definition of alcoholism:

"When you really want another drink...even though you just had one.  And then you go and get one, whether it's convenient or smart to do so."

Yeah.  We're alcoholics. 

But we sure do have lots of "adventures."

I don't ask for my life to be happy, I just want it to be interesting. 

I don't know when I first adopted that philosophy.  I have a distinct memory of scribbling it into a small pink journal (with purple hearts in the corners), so I couldn't have been more than 12.  I just remember thinking "Even bad things can be interesting."  And happiness seems so...Arbitrary?  I have a hard time not equating contentment with complacency.

So my life has been "interesting".  Sometimes a little too interesting, even for me.  But I feel lucky because when a moment of happiness comes along, I recognize it as a gift, enjoy it, then wave goodbye when it's over.  I take my happiness 15 minutes at a time, and I take my bad times like a trooper...Even if I do call in the 12oz reinforcements more than necessary.

I didn't realize how long it had been since I was happy until today. 

It was a goddamn beautiful day.  Didn't start that way.  I had a shitty morning at work, an overnight shift of frustration and technical difficulties.  Bought myself a book and headed home, I was tired and hadn't slept for a long time.

But when I stepped off the train...It was just so gorgeous.  One of those clear summer days that almost feel like spring.  The oppressive humidity of the past week had lifted with last night's thunderstorms, and the world felt...Clean.  Breezy, with an impossibly blue sky.  And I felt happy.

Instead of collapsing into bed as soon as I got home, I grabbed a blanket and a new pack of cigarettes, then walked over to the park.  I couldn't stop smiling at people as I looked for a place to set up my blanket and book.  And then I heard bagpipes.

My first thought was "Maybe there are Scotsmen over that hill."  I like Scotsmen.

But it was just one tiny, old man in the middle of a field, playing his bagpipes. 

I laid down on a soft little hill surrounded by trees, scruffy in overalls and a baseball cap, with a brand new book.  I listened to bagpipes.  And I was in love with the world.  Just laying there, 'til irregular patches of sun stained my arms brown.  I felt like my heart would explode.  I was golden.  I was happy.

 
I've had exactly two other days like this in my life.  Once, sitting on a bench at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois.  Another time on the front steps of my new apartment, arms wrapped around my knees, letting my hair dry in the sun.

Three days where I've been completely, and utterly happy. 

I'm a pretty lucky person.

I was 7 years old when I skinned my knees for the very first time. 
 
That may seem belated for juvenile scrapes and bruises, considering my younger brother was covered in abrasions pretty much from the time he he was 3.  He fell out of trees a lot.  But I was a quiet and studious child (translation: Unathletic Nerd), and managed to avoid any loss of epidermis until I was 7.  I was riding my bike to a nearby doctor's office for my weekly allergy shot (see: nerd), when I wiped out (see: unathletic).  I skidded into what felt like a quarry, putting a magnificent end to an unscathed childhood.  The scars remained on my formerly pristine knees for years, finally fading just in time for me to turn:
 
14 years old.  My family moves to a farm in rural Nebraska, four miles from a town consisting of one block of Main street and a Dairy Queen.  But hey, it was a hot summer day, and I was itching for an Oreo(tm) Blizzard(tm).  So I mounted my hot pink splashed Huffy(tm) mountain bike and started the trek to town.  I got halfway there before realizing I was ill prepared for the journey.  Mainly because I forgot to bring hydrogen peroxide, bandages, or at least some tweezers to dig the rubble out of my lacerated flesh.  Realizing that bikes and unpaved country roads don't mix, and that bikes and I will never mix, I return home to stow away all shorts for almost a decade.  I notice that I don't bruise often,  but I do bruise deep.
 
I am 21.  Another warm summer day and I'm meeting friends at Hooter's.  I smile and wave as I see them sitting on the deck, happily anticipating 25 cent wings and $3 pitchers of beer.  I revel in the sun on my shoulders and the gentle breeze ruffling my skirt as I cross the parking lot.  I marvel at the stupendous nosedive I take when I don't notice the concrete parking barrier in my path.  Once again, I bid farewell to several inches of flesh.  As I wrap my oozing joints in wet naps, I wonder if I actually have skin left at this point, or if my knees consist entirely of scar tissue now. 
  
And this is the reason why, coming home from the bar at 3am last night, I faceplanted into my front steps, horribly abrading my lower extremities.  It was destiny.  I'm nearly 28, my exterior layers have been trauma free for far too long.  It was absolutely unavoidable.  Predestination.  Such is my fortune and fate.
 
As for why I then fell into the rosebush...well, that was just because I was drunk. 

I am the Perfect Woman.
 
I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack.  You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head.  However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights.  You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass.  No, because I am the perfect woman.
 
I don’t enjoy playing video games, but I love watching them.  I’m really good at finding secret levels, too.  Rest assured I can sit happily for hours watching you play Grand Theft Auto, and after you’re all x-boxed out, I will most likely give you a blow job while you watch a televised sporting event of your choice.  In the absence of a good sporting event, we can watch the Three Stooges and I will actually understand why they’re funny.  I’m that perfect. 
 
I hate talking on the phone.  I love beer.  I can quote The Simpson’s for hours.  I own 3 pairs of shoes.  I refuse to patronize any club with a velvet rope and $40 cover charge, but love drinking in dirty dive bars, where you will be allowed to ignore me completely while watching the last quarter of a football game.  I buy all my own drinks.
 
I am educated enough to carry on conversations about politics, drama, philosophy and science, but I also know about 200 dick jokes.  I don’t wear underwear, but I will wear lingerie upon request.  That one thing that you thought was just an urban legend, even though your college roommate’s brother swore he knew a girl who tried it…I can do it.
 
I hate talking about my feelings. 
 
I have an insatiable sexual appetite, but a horrible fear of commitment.  If you want to keep seeing other women, I will most likely be relieved, and even encouraging.  I will never call you out for looking at an attractive woman when we’re together.  In fact, I will frequently point them out to you.  You won’t have to hang out with my bitchy girlfriends because I don’t have any.  I can hold my own when we’re with your friends, but I won’t make them feel stupid.  I am funny, but not funnier than you.
 
I orgasm easily.
 
I enjoy fishing and camping.  I enjoy fine dining.  I enjoy art films, I enjoy movies where lots of shit gets blown up.  I watch porn.  I know that men masturbate, I know that men cheat.  I won’t freak out when you do either because I know it’s not really reflecting your feelings for me…It’s just your biological makeup.  I won’t yell at you when you don’t call for 3 days.  I’ll never give you the silent treatment, cold shoulder or withhold sex.  I won’t say “I’m fine” in that horrible, chilling “nothing is fine, nor will it ever be” tone of voice.  I won’t ask what you’re doing with your life or where you see yourself (or us) in 10 years.
 
I will never ask you “what are you thinking?” 
 
I am the perfect woman.  But I think it’s just because I act like a guy.