Monday mornings can be….well, harsh. Today is no exception. The heat is on and my vision is challenged by the dryness of the air. (Yes, I have heard of a humidifier.) My breath is restricted by congestion. (Yes, I have heard of Vic’s Vapor Rub.) My brain is grappling with the daunting task of blogging about something anyone might find interesting. (Yes, I do mean anyone.) The first order of business was blanket control and then to the coffee. While that is brewing I make my way into the office and start the engines. Once those babies are fired up, I check in to see if there were ANY sales over the weekend, and it seems there is only one lucky reader out there who will be enjoying Summoning The Strength within five to seven business days or sooner. (Depending on how anxious they were to receive it.)
Now, I must share a few details about myself. I am 5’3” tall (NOT gonna share any other stats) and the reason this is important is because there have been times when my low center of gravity has been in direct conflict with my blood to alcohol ratio. Over the years, my husband has perfected an early warning system to keep this from occurring but from time to time it goes off-line. (As systems will sometimes do when they are over worked or not maintained properly.)
Peer pressure has never been a factor for me when it comes to any number of irresponsible behaviors. I grew up in a “dry county” and for those of you who don’t know what that is, it simply means if you want to purchase adult beverages you have to go across the county line, where the heathens live, to a package store, a.k.a. the liquor store. (It is an antiquated and unbelievably naïve belief system/law.) Anyway, doing this only once caused a violent reaction to something called MAD DOG 20/20 and so, other than that ridiculous episode, all the way from the innocence of my adolescence, through the angst of puberty, and into my so-called arrival at adulthood I was as sober as the day is long. (NOT because of a manmade law but because of a natural one.)
As fate would have it, being one of less than a dozen women in an aircraft maintenance squadron of about three-hundred people, I had some provin’ to do, or so I thought. That was the beginning of the end of my sobriety. My Rebel Yell was louder than any shot heard round the world and my dance card was filled with every Jack, Jim, and Jose. Since those not-so-glorious days, I have been tapped on the shoulder a time or two and introduced to some guy named Ralph, who I dislike very much and try to avoid at parties.
I am lucky to have lived to tell the tale.
I am reminded of my naïveté when I find myself in unfamiliar territory. Even now I am getting sidetracked by the notion that I have something to prove in this blogosphere. I think, unlike the apostle Paul, I will resist the temptation to do the things which I do not want to do and instead I will follow the guidance of the words of Polonius, “…To thine own self be true,” and the completely unnecessary request of the liquor industry to “please drink responsibly.”