Getting Real With Myself
The other day, I was unloading the dishwasher (how I spend most of my time at home), trying to find room for the assorted water glasses, coffee mugs, and ice cream bowls, when it occurred to me that an awful lot of space was taken up by stemware. Considering that I’ll have been sober 3 years in August, I started wondering why I keep those things around.
In my heart, though, I know the reason. I’ve always had this fantasy that I’d “entertain.” I imagine cars lined up along the curb and candlelight dinner parties on the deck. We’d play Ray LaMontagne and some would get a little tipsy and slow dance. I’d enjoy their buzz vicariously, enjoy the praise, “Oh, Tania, the frito pie is exquisite!”
But it’s time to smell the Sanka. I’d never invite anyone to my house that hasn’t seen me in my pajamas. You certainly don’t invite your boss or your daughter’s boyfriend’s parents over when you live like this: