Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thank god for Advil
Pic taken at dusk. In that inbetween light, the roses look so other-worldly.
Not all hangovers are created equal, no they are not. In fact, though of course always the result of drinking too much, the severity and mood of every hangover seems quite different, at least to me.
One of the fortunate aspects of growing older is that it becomes increasingly difficult to drink enough to get a hangover. The headaches begin before the party ends usually, or I have the maturity or at least presence of mind to stop with the liquor and launch into a big glass of water before it's too late. When I tie one on these days, it's dainty - a pastel ribbon twisted into a pretty bow - as opposed to a noose made of rough, heavy rope, yanked tight around my head (which is what hangovers felt like during my early adulthood.)
Last night's festivities included some red wine which sounds quite civilized, doesn't it? I mean, we weren't drinking it straight from the bottle, after all. But then Manuel switched on some Brazilian music and began to dance around. The next thing I knew we were dancing and going on and on about how we would miss each other when I move out. It was sweet and sappy and very loving.
When I noticed John had decided that washing the dinner dishes was more entertaining than watching us dance, it occurred to me that perhaps Manuel and I had become a little more unglued than we suspected. Sure enough, this morning I'm gulping down Advil, large glasses of water, and I felt the need for a triple latte, too.
That said, this is a happy hangover, if that's possible. I don't feel remorse over getting a little bit carried away last night. Today is the ninth anniversary of my move into this house. Just as it was nine years ago, the birds are singing, the air is clean, a sparkling green crystal. The children are playing on the sidewalk and the neighbors are all out, pulling weeds or chatting.
When I moved to Tennessee Avenue, I had nothing, and I do mean NOTHING. I was scared, bitter, lost and desperate. After nine years, I've become part of the tapestry of Tennessee Avenue. I've watched the kids grow up and the parents grow older. I remember many of the old neighbors who have passed away or moved on. I hold so much of the recent history of this street. Indeed, my feet feel perfectly at home here on the brick sidewalks, tracing the same paths that citizens of Tennessee Avenue have followed for more than two hundred years.
It is understandable, perhaps even appropriate, to get a little sloppy at the idea of moving away from Tennessee Avenue on the eve of my nine year anniversary. OK, maybe not appropriate. OK. Mea culpa. Happy Saturday to all. Cheers!