One might think I am about to reminisce, a long-ago time when arms and legs were toned and strong. There may have been an ab sighting, I do not recall. My youth was filled with active days and drinking nights, usually ending up with me missing a trash can or the toilet if I was lucky enough to get home in time at all. I was heavyweight in appearance, but a lightweight in my abilities to handle beer, let alone alcohol. Then when night, after too much of everything, I got the sickest I had ever been. I swore off drinking, as we all do, and that lasted but a week. A strange thing did occur though, and for the life of me, I cannot explain. Seemingly, in one moment, I built a tolerance and I never got sick again. Not a single time. That was well over a decade ago. I went from being able to drink a 12-pack to being able to knock down a case or more, with a few shots to boot. Then, even more shockingly, I was able to drink booze and way too much of it. Responsibility was not always my forte, but drinking tends to do that. Before this awakening, Sundays had always been for rest. I had finally graduated to what is now known as Sunday Funday!
Sunday grew into a thing because of football, but for some of us more serious aficionados of mind erasing, Friday and Saturday nights are for the amateurs; the pros come to play on Sunday and they do so early. Up until about six years ago, on a football Sunday, I regularly arrived to claim my throne around noon. A beer or two before kickoff and then the fun started. Three or four beers per hour, shots at least every hour, sometimes on the six, should a new fan arrive. This went on until halftime of the second game when the bartenders would switch over and the married men would go home to their upset wives and children. The single, divorced, and those who had long stopped caring, stayed for the end. I do not want to exclude the hardcore women out there who hung strong, regardless of whether or not they drank "as much." Then the crowd changed and families arrived for dinner, the gap between the day games and the night seems interminable. There I was, second, maybe even third wind at my back, ordering more and doing shots with an entirely different type of clientele. Depending on my state, which often had to do with whether or not I chose to have any sustenance other than wheat, barley, hops, and whatever goes into the numerous shots I'd taken, I'd stay long past the finale. Often closing the bar I'd helped another to open. Fourteen, fifteen, even sixteen-hour shifts were the norm. Monday, I was always on time, well aside from one Super Bowl, but that's a story for another time. The crazy part was, during the summer, when Saturday nights, from 4 PM to 4 AM, sometimes even later, I still repeated this process, albeit with a later starting time. I should add, that I was often out Thursday through Monday, but again, this isn't bravado, this is about now. So what happened?
I took four years off from going out to bars. Four years. To put that in perspective, if I'd taken off the four previous to those, putting every dime I had into a vault, I'd have somewhere in the vicinity of fifty-thousand dollars saved. When I got back on the proverbial horse, I took it easy. I'd had vodka drinks at home, but it had been a while since I sat down for some beers and the long haul. The local bar offered an insane special during the fone-o'clock football games: Free pint of anything if a New York team score. Let's just say, that despite it being a down year for New Teams, they almost always played at 1 PM. Well, at least two of them, and if they could each average seventeen points, that was six free pints. A $36 savings, which often turned into a $20-$30 tips. What I realized was, I was hammered. Six or seven beers in three hours were now sending me home for a mid-afternoon nap. I only caught two, maybe three, afternoon games because of this special and my tolerance has not grown, but I still try.
So what does my Sunday look like today? Well, aside from Wimbledon's men's final happening in a few hours, my normal Sunday goes something like this. Wake up around 5 AM, beg Swag for an extra half hour, usually succumbing to his cries after 20 minutes. Go to the bathroom, wash my face, head downstairs to let him out, make a pot of coffee, take my vitamins, eat a banana, then sit out on the deck with my cup and my laptop. During the winter months, I spend it at the dining room table (the only time it's ever used in this house). I usually do this for about two hours, then cook myself a tofu scramble with hash browned potatoes and onions. On ocassion, I switch it up or go a different route, at times choosing to eat leftovers if there are any from last night's dinner. I also usually do some laundry and some housekeeping on Sunday mornings. I had been working Sundays from September to June, but now, the cocktails can start around 10:30 AM. I sometimes hit the bar early, as it is open for breakfast, but noon is my usual arrival time. I don't stay more than two hours now, four, five beers tops, a nice tip and an affordable $25-30 total. I then head home, make a drink, then sit outside, alone, and think about the coming days, weeks, and years. A lot more drinks coincide with how much I think about these things and how far in the future I delve. I think the biggest difference to my Sunday Funday is that I used to go out to have fun with friends, but now, only six years later, I go out hoping to meet new friends. So far I've accumulated some acquaintances, but I'm trying. Seems as if people are more social on social media than in real life or RL as the kids are saynng.
Sunday grew into a thing because of football, but for some of us more serious aficionados of mind erasing, Friday and Saturday nights are for the amateurs; the pros come to play on Sunday and they do so early. Up until about six years ago, on a football Sunday, I regularly arrived to claim my throne around noon. A beer or two before kickoff and then the fun started. Three or four beers per hour, shots at least every hour, sometimes on the six, should a new fan arrive. This went on until halftime of the second game when the bartenders would switch over and the married men would go home to their upset wives and children. The single, divorced, and those who had long stopped caring, stayed for the end. I do not want to exclude the hardcore women out there who hung strong, regardless of whether or not they drank "as much." Then the crowd changed and families arrived for dinner, the gap between the day games and the night seems interminable. There I was, second, maybe even third wind at my back, ordering more and doing shots with an entirely different type of clientele. Depending on my state, which often had to do with whether or not I chose to have any sustenance other than wheat, barley, hops, and whatever goes into the numerous shots I'd taken, I'd stay long past the finale. Often closing the bar I'd helped another to open. Fourteen, fifteen, even sixteen-hour shifts were the norm. Monday, I was always on time, well aside from one Super Bowl, but that's a story for another time. The crazy part was, during the summer, when Saturday nights, from 4 PM to 4 AM, sometimes even later, I still repeated this process, albeit with a later starting time. I should add, that I was often out Thursday through Monday, but again, this isn't bravado, this is about now. So what happened?
I took four years off from going out to bars. Four years. To put that in perspective, if I'd taken off the four previous to those, putting every dime I had into a vault, I'd have somewhere in the vicinity of
So what does my Sunday look like today? Well, aside from Wimbledon's men's final happening in a few hours, my normal Sunday goes something like this. Wake up around 5 AM, beg Swag for an extra half hour, usually succumbing to his cries after 20 minutes. Go to the bathroom, wash my face, head downstairs to let him out, make a pot of coffee, take my vitamins, eat a banana, then sit out on the deck with my cup and my laptop. During the winter months, I spend it at the dining room table (the only time it's ever used in this house). I usually do this for about two hours, then cook myself a tofu scramble with hash browned potatoes and onions. On ocassion, I switch it up or go a different route, at times choosing to eat leftovers if there are any from last night's dinner. I also usually do some laundry and some housekeeping on Sunday mornings. I had been working Sundays from September to June, but now, the cocktails can start around 10:30 AM. I sometimes hit the bar early, as it is open for breakfast, but noon is my usual arrival time. I don't stay more than two hours now, four, five beers tops, a nice tip and an affordable $25-30 total. I then head home, make a drink, then sit outside, alone, and think about the coming days, weeks, and years. A lot more drinks coincide with how much I think about these things and how far in the future I delve. I think the biggest difference to my Sunday Funday is that I used to go out to have fun with friends, but now, only six years later, I go out hoping to meet new friends. So far I've accumulated some acquaintances, but I'm trying. Seems as if people are more social on social media than in real life or RL as the kids are saynng.
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