Nary a modicum of moderation

I know I lack moderation, and when I am being mindful, I do try to be more moderate. But the problem is that in the moment I’m always like, “Yay! Fun! What a great idea! Yippee!”

Judgement goes out the window.

I recently had such a good reminder of this out with an old friend of mine. He’d been out of the country, so this was our first real catch-up in over a year. We met at Proof, which I love love love.

He was already there when I arrived, so I just ordered a glass of the white he’d chosen. We finished our glasses of wine over intense conversation. And then our server came by and asked if we’d like another. I didn’t love the one he’d chosen, so she recommended an Austrian white that was delicious. Really easy to drink. Yum.

And so, catching up on a zillion things, we finished those, and she asked if we’d like another. We looked at each other and he suggested we get an appetizer and one last glass of wine. Which we did. We got a ginormous platter of absolutely delicious cured meats.

But the fact is this. Cured meat does very little to mitigate three glasses of wine. And why is it that, in the midst of having fun, when someone suggests another, I always think it’s such a fabulous idea?

Even though I joke about it, I’m not sitting home drinking bottles of wine alone. But out, when someone else is like, “Let’s have more!” I’m never, ever the voice of reason.

And why do I even begin to think I can swill as much as men who are practically twice my size?

The answer is, I don’t. Think, I mean. In the moment, I’m not thinking at all. If I were thinking, I’d be like, “Lisa, you are a little person. And two glasses of wine are more than enough. You should sip water and not get ridiculous.”

Right. Which is never what happens. What happens is I say, “Sure! Fun! Bring on the ridiculous!”

These other people, often being people much larger than me, they wind up fine the next day, while I wind up thinking I’m going to die.

Nick picked me up from the metro. I poured myself into the passenger seat all, “Whee!”

He just sighed, less than delighted. And understandably so. Because, poor man, he got up at 5 am to travel for work, turned around and came back to DC, and kept working till he picked me up. And there he was, at 9:30 at night, forcing me to drink water and eat a sandwich.

And sometimes I am not super cooperative. I don’t get belligerent, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep walking away from the glass.

“C’mon. Drink your water!”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not. You’re standing across the room checking email.”

Eye roll. “Fine.” Sip sip. Get distracted. Walk away again.

“Lis! You’ll feel so much better if you eat some sandwich. Eat!”

I eat but I act like I’m doing him a favor. Like, he’s so lucky I’m eating this turkey and cheese sandwich he so nicely made me.

And again, if I were thinking, I’d realize that a sandwich and a huge glass of water are probably the best idea that’s been presented to me all evening. And I'm doing nobody a favor.

Honestly.