We drove home all day yesterday from Wilkes-Barre, PA to Lawrence, MA. Not the longest drive in the grand scheme of things, but those six hours always seem longer than they are. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m inevitably hungover when I leave Wilkes-Barre, PA.
I’m starting to feel like I used to feel when I got home from touring. Exhausted and antsy at the same time. Very tempted to get fucked up, to get out of my head at any cost. When you move around so much at a million miles an hour (or 75mph, whichever) and then you come home and you suddenly stop… it can be hard to know what to do with yourself. I’m trying to eat good, I went to yoga tonight, I sent my parents some wine and a Christmas card and ran some other errands today.
After yoga I cooked a meal for one with more than enough food for two. Even when I’m home, my house is 98 miles and a ferry ride from my girlfriend, so that’s just the way it goes sometimes. And I found a nice bottle of wine tucked away from some pot-luck or dinner party of yore. The smell of garlic in the air, seasoned warm chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, the steamed broccoli. I uncorked the bottle and happily downed a glass of that Chilean red with dinner in front of the TV. When I ate my seconds I drank water to rehydrate from the Bikram. But I was so much looking forward to that next glass of wine. I wondered if I would maybe end up downing the whole bottle.
And when I set out to do the dishes, I opened a cabinet and knocked the near-full bottle of wine clean off the marble counter. It smashed on the floor in a million pieces. Shards of dark green glass and red pools that made our kitchen look like a murder scene, all spreading over the hardwood and seeping under the fridge.
Maybe that’s a sign that I’m not supposed to be drinking.