Gut Rumbles
 

July 16, 2007

Don't ask me why

Originally published December 2, 2005

You're probably wondering why I am blogging at such an ungodly hour. I am wondering the same thing.
[Ed. 4:24am, on the original post.]

During my 38 days of rest and relaxation at the Willingway Health and Beauty Spa, I developed a distinct sleep routine. I went to bed early and woke up when the nurse barged into my room to take my vital signs before sunrise in the morning. Sometimes she tied a piece of rubber tubing around my arm and took a blood sample, too. About the only thing she DIDN'T do at least once was run a finger up my brown-eye to check my oil.

I became accustomed to this routine and I decided to keep it up once I came home. So, it's been early to bed and early to rise for me all week long, even without the blood-pressure cuffs and the hypodermic needles rousing me from sleep. I was doing pretty good with it, too--- until tonight.

I went to bed at 11:00 PM. I couldn't get comfortable. I tossed and turned for a while. My legs started to ache, with a deep, annoying throb that seemed to come from the bone, just like the "growing pains" I experienced as a boy. My back itched in a place I couldn't reach with either hand. My feet felt cold.

I finally said, "To hell with THIS," and got up to watch a movie on TV and drink some apple juice--- the very same juice that my grandmother gave me on Tuesday--- the stuff that packs a very powerful laxative effect if you drink a lot at one sitting. (Do THAT and you'll be soon be sitting, all right, listening to the sound of a covey of quail flying right outta your ass!)

I wasn't paying much attention to the movie when I suddenly realized what was bothering me. It wasn't my aching legs, my itching back or my cold feet.

I was craving a drink of liquor. And I mean REALLY craving.

That's happened to me only three or four times since I came home from Willingway, and never in the middle of the night like this. But it was a bad craving.

I'm glad that I don't have any liquor in the house, because an evil voice was whispering bad things in my ear. "Nobody will know. Just take ONE drink. Just ONE, that's all. Then you can go to sleep. You WANT to sleep, don't you? Go ahead. Just one LITTLE drink."

I now know how Odessus felt when he was tied to the mast of his ship listening to the Song of the Sirens. If I had a bottle stashed around here I would have been sorely tempted to take a slash. Or two. Or three. Or an entire quart.

Instead, I went to my computer, surfed a few blogs and threw up a couple of posts just to keep my hands from becoming the devil's playthings. That craving is pretty much gone now.

But I drank three glasses of apple juice. I may be riding the stone pony before long and listening to sound of fluttering quail wings.

The bad part is, I'm still not sleepy. The good part is, I AM still sober.

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