The only time I drink by myself is late at night when I’m waiting on my laundry to be done. I should clarify that I don’t drink myself into any sort of stupor. I’m not bragging about the extent of my restraint, and I don’t really hold sobriety in any high regard. I just can’t bring myself to down beer after beer alone, waiting for my laundry to finish spinning around in a coin-operated contraption.
So, I only have two beers while I wait. I could drink three or four or nine. I have the financial means, and I’m twenty-three years old. There are no economic or legal restrictions that prevent me from becoming blotto-fuck drunk while I launder. I simply choose not to.
My reasoning might have something to do with the fact that I know my girlfriend is in the next room sleeping. It might have something to do with the fact that I might hate myself if I became wholly inebriated while cleaning my clothes. It might have to do with the fact that I’m kind of health conscious, and more than two beers before bed isn’t good for the body (some would argue that even one beer before bed is detrimental to the physical faculties. Those people are most likely absolutely correct).
I don’t know the reason(s) I limit myself to two. That’s the truth. Currently, as my fingers semi-deftly interact with my keyboard, I’m finishing my second beer. It doesn’t have me tipsy, but it has me close. I’m walking that thin tightrope between drunk and sober. I’m precariously bi-pedaling(Not uni-cycling, bi-pedaling. I know the difference) myself on that thin rope in fact. Any sudden movements might serve to pitch me over the side and send me careening towards the circus floor of inebriation.
The beer is a Belgian White Blue Moon. I bought it when a friend came over for a hang out. I also bought it, because my girlfriend likes it. I live with her and I love her, so I show this affection through a slew of small gestures such as buying beer she likes and doing dishes before bed. All that is neither here nor there. The real question is why.
So why do I do it? What’s the point of casual solo drinking as my clothes swirl? Again, I’m left with no answers. Why do I feel the need to do this? I’m not an alcoholic. That’s not me rationalizing. It’s the truth. I drink with extreme infrequency. I don’t even drink every time I do laundry. I don’t even drink most times I do laundry. It’s the only time I drink alone however.
My fear is that it’s posturing. Am I trying to look cool, to feel cool, to be cool? Am I the person in fancy clothes chain smoking with affected sultry sexiness? Am I posing as someone who drinks at night alone? Do I achieve some sort of sick satisfaction from the knowledge that I’m really, really doing something that I perceive as cool? Fuck I hope not. It’s a definite possibility.
My other fear is that I’m cultivating a problem. I’m not an alcoholic now, but it runs in my family. It runs in my family with a vicious vengeance. Violent alcoholism has destroyed the lives of people I know. Will I one day cross the dangerous Rubicon into greater than two beers? Will I stumble to the washer and dryer like the town drunk? Will the next people to do laundry have to wake me with a cold bucket of water like some old west degenerate? Will my laundry drinking habits lead me to a cold death underneath a bridge? Am I signing my own death warrant, tempting the doom of my family tree, fastening the noose around my own neck by cracking open two orange flavored beers while I feed a white machine quarters? I’m slowly killing myself, estranging myself from the ones I love, from my home, from my passions in life, from the youthful innocence that I still cling to. This is the beginning of the end for old Sam Thomas. It’s act three in the tragedy of my life.
Hey, asshole get out of your head. Chase yourself off the table of unhealthy self reflection with a spray bottle like an unwelcome feline. Get out of your head. Leave.
Here’s the truth. I enjoy it. And I have to do something while my laundry dries. This is not the beginning of the end. I like to have two beers at night while your t-shirts, pants, and other articles of clothing soak and mix with detergent. It doesn’t get any deeper than that. I think. Jesus, am I in denial? Nah.