I’m Getting Too Old for This Shit

When I was but a squishy, fat toddler, I had my very first drink. I’m not talking breast milk or fruit juice.
No. Please.
I’m talking spirits. Hard liquor. Cane.
Apparently, I’d been crying. For a baby, I believe this is normal.
I wouldn’t stop though, so my parents decided that instead of tossing me out the window, as I’m assuming I would do as a future bad parent, they would get their innocent baby girl calm – and drunk.
A shot of cane and a scrunched up face later, I stopped crying. I probably protested the burn. Perhaps I wobbled. I may have even giggled and hiccoughed all cute, slobbery and disoriented.
Mission accomplished though; I ceased my wailing. In fact, I ceased doing anything.
Still waddling about in my nappy, I already had my first alcohol-induced blackout.
It could be a tale though. I don’t remember this. I’ll ask my mom again. Or maybe not. I may not be able to take having another bomb dropped after discovering that I may have been conceived while my parents weren’t…’low’.
What’s that? Oh, I’ve got grass stuck in my laces. Would you hand me that pot? I may weed the garden when I’m done baking brownies. Hi, Mary Jane! Lovely green sweater. No, thanks. I don’t smoke.
I do, but that’s not the point.
So, I’ve been drinking for a long time.
Not by choice. Well, by choice. Which 9 year-old is going to say no brandy when they’ve been repetitively told that this magical, mysterious, oak liquid is not for them?
Father was an alcoholic, so alcohol was always in an abundance.
Brother used to enjoy drinking so much that at one point, he opened the fridge to find it stark empty.
“We need more beer.”
I just wanted milk.
Anyway, it was Father who started this drinking thing. Every evening, or early afternoon – let’s be real – I’d pour him his drinks. Not before long, I was offered an alcoholic treat of my own.
There was no going back. I was pouring drinks for two.
Little Lola was squeaky, scrawny, short, and had bushy eyebrows.
Now imagine that drunk.
It’s no wonder he gave me alcohol.
Mother would have had his head on a stake if she knew. In fact, on two stakes if she’d known he started my smoking too.
That was at about 11. One vice at a time, Dad.
My drinking continued long after Father and I pulled the plug on the whole father-daughter relationship thing. Casually at first; at 15, a drink here and there on the gazebo where my uncle couldn’t see me.
At 16, I had friends that were much older than me. I also had a predisposition for recklessness.
Preston is a small town. There isn’t much to do other than drink and fish.
Naturally, rocks don’t like being hooked and I don’t like being wet and cold.
I don’t really need to go into the next few years. It just got progressively worse. At 18, developing alcoholism is legal. How could it not get worse with no restrictions?
Then, before I turned 21, I just got over it.
So, I stopped.
I’d drink a beer or two and be done, and no matter how many times my peers would try to pressure, I’d sit there swirling the last bit of a Miller, reveling in their drunken frustration.
I now appreciate being in control amidst chaos.
Now my cousins don’t even mind taking me out. I would take me out too. I’d only have to buy myself one drink.
Sometimes, that’s all I need. This is how bad my tolerance is.
y u do dis, Liver?
So, when I say I’ve been drinking for a long time, it’s not to be super cool and badass.
In case you were unaware, nobody pictures a tween drinking and thinks, “Man, you’re so cool!”
I’ve been drinking a long time.
I’m getting too old for this shit.

2 responses to “I’m Getting Too Old for This Shit

  1. It’s not often but I have the time or the attention span to read a whole blog post, but you’re writing is witty and truly an enjoyable read! You’ve taken a somber subject and put a humorous spent on it.

    Liked by 1 person

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