I had a rough day at the office yesterday. Nothing I couldn’t handle, just a series of meetings, interrupting a number of emergency projects, punctuated with a ride in the elevator with Hot Attorney where I actually managed to not say something stupid but that is mostly because I was focused on not shoving my tongue down his throat so I kept my mouth shut.
So I was really looking forward to happy hour with some friends. But, my day got crazier and crazier, and then I learned my friends were having just as hectic days, and it was decided we should postpone happy hour.
As I finished up at the office, I realized just how disappointed I was that I wasn’t getting a drink after work. See, in an effort to lose weight, I have cut back on my drinking and I had even saved up calories so I could have two glasses of wine after work and after the day I had I was really going to enjoy them.
On the other hand, I told myself, I should be happy that I can just go home and make dinner and not have to worry that two glasses would turn into three would turn into four and happy hour would end with me making a late evening fast food run.
Unfortunately, no matter how many times I told myself this, I still really wanted a glass of wine.
Now, I suppose, I could have gone to a bar and had a glass. But that sort of thinking didn’t occur to me. Instead, on my way home from work, I stopped at the liquor store and picked up a bottle – promising myself I would only have two glasses (and not bottomless glasses either).
I then picked up the necessary groceries to make myself a wonderfully healthy dinner to go with my red wine.
Walking (actually, more like strutting) down Spruce Street I was pumped for my evening. Just when I thought things couldn’t get better, Florence and the Machine came on my iPhone.
I was adjusting my bags so that I could turn up the music when tragedy struck.
I dropped the bag from the liquor store.
I heard the crash; I saw the red liquid pouring out across the sidewalk.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I knew I had to pick up the bag and that I didn’t need to clean up the spill (it was about to rain, after all) but frozen there I wondered, who can I call? Should I take a picture for Twitter? Do I go back to the liquor store for another bottle?
A man with a stroller walked by and asked if I wanted a napkin. I looked up at him, then down at the spill wondering what a single napkin would do, then double checked that none of the wine splashed up on my pants (thank goodness I didn’t have to take another pair of pants to the cleaners with a wine stain on them) and then said, “No. I think I’m fine.”
Clearly, though, I wasn’t.