Daily Blog

     So, 99 days of sobriety. You’d think I’d be due for some kind of celebratory parade by now, maybe with a marching band, some balloons, and a confetti cannon. Instead, it feels like I’m stuck in an eternal rerun of “Survivor: Dry Drunk Island.” My teammates? Anxiety, self-doubt, and the constant urge to throw something fragile. How have I made it this far? Honestly, divine intervention and the nagging fear that I’ll somehow find a way to be even worse after another bender. Let’s hear it for progress, folks!

     And winter? What a jerk. Every time I step outside, I feel like I’m auditioning for the Winter Olympics as a trash-can-lugging figure skater. One slip on the ice, and it’s game over. I tell my friend, “Just one good fall, and it’s curtains for me—adios, muchachos!” And that’s assuming I survive the daily battle with my driveway. I swear, snow should come with a disclaimer: Warning: May cause spontaneous humiliation.

     Speaking of a spontaneous humiliation fail, let’s rewind to my glory days on a construction site in California. Picture this: I’m 30, full of youthful delusion, thinking I’m invincible. I’m rocking my anti-slip boots, feeling like a model for “Construction Worker Chic.” The job site? A muddy swamp masquerading as  an business complex in progress. But I’m unfazed. I’m strutting through the slop, ready to conquer the day—until my boots decide to betray me. One moment I’m upright; the next, I’m airborne, in a full Looney Tunes-style wipeout. I hit the ground with the grace of a falling anvil, mud splattering everywhere like Mother Nature’s personal laugh track.

     There I was, lying in the mud like a poorly planted tree, contemplating every decision that led to that moment. After five solid minutes of staring at the sky and praying for a portal to swallow me whole, I radioed my boss. With all the dignity I could muster, I declared, “Screw you guys, I’m going home.” And that’s exactly what I did, leaving behind my pride and whatever remained of my once-optimistic spirit.

     Now, back to sobriety. Apparently, being a raging dry drunk isn’t what they mean by “recovery.” Who knew? It’s probably time to wander out of the woods, dust off my ego, and head to a meeting. But hey, at least I have my stories. And mud-free boots. For now, my fellow misfits, stay sober and stay busy.  Later..