When it comes to wine—well, pretty much any alcohol—I have no self-control.
Last Wednesday, I was on the couch, my TV cued to a re-run of Outlander, an empty wine glass in my hand. My cheeks were flushed and hot enough to warm my hands when it’s -3° out. I was mouth breathing because my nose was stuffed. And every few minutes, I was scratching my chest like fleas had burrowed underneath my skin.
I’m allergic to wine, but did that stop me?
I was like, screw you wine. I’ll drink you if I want ‘cause that’s how I roll.
It had been a trying day. Just imagine the type of nightmares demons have…
That was my day.
Due to said allergies, I normally only allow myself to drink on Saturday. (Not only does wine give me everything but hives, it also disturbs my sleep.)
But I needed a drink that day. So, I chose a small glass. And told myself sternly, “You will only drink this one glass.”
I listened so well…in the beginning.
I savored each sip.
Take a sip. Pause. Sip. Pause. Sip. Pause. Sip. Pau—
As soon as the ice cube hit my lip after the last sip, (Yes. I like ice with my wine. Yes, I realize I have no hope in becoming a wine connoisseur.) I refilled my glass.
Fast forward two hours, four re-fills, and a half package of Oreos later my nose was beyond stuffy and my entire face and chest was on fire.
But I didn’t care. Because I had four glasses of wine. Everything was just a-okay in my book.
Until I woke up the next morning…
At o-dark thirty…
To get ready for work…