Really, I Have a Valid License AND a Car
Those are the words I wanted to shout from the rooftops last night.
After dinner, I relaxed with a book while Ben and Bob turned their brains to oatmeal with a rousing game of "Lego Star Wars" on the Nintendo. Gazing longingly at my bike, I realized I was fresh out of liquor, and yes, mama does enjoy her evening cocktail after the boy goes to bed. I decided to kill two desires with one trip and ride my bike to QuikTrip.
It was a little chilly, so I traded my pajama pants for jeans, and covered my t-shirt with one of Ben's big gray hooded sweatshirts. (I could fit 3 of myself in there.) Then I added my hot-pink high tops. Realizing I was dressed like some 15-year-old punkass kid, I slipped my license into my pocket in addition to my debit card.
Then I asked The Question You Dare Not Ask:
"Do you need me to get you anything?"
I guess I was banking on the fact he was engrossed in "Lego Star Wars." I should have known better, because he was playing with Bob, and playing a video game with Bob requires less concentration and more patience. He responded to my query with that look, and I knew what his answer was.
"Oh, come on, don't make me get beer..."
A look of hurt confusion.
"I'm taking my bike."
"So just get a 6-pack of cans and have them put it in a bag, and just put the bag over your handlebars. It's not a big deal."
Grmph. Fine. I have carried a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi home on my bike with the aid of a backpack, so a 6-pack wouldn't be such an ordeal.
Except I forgot the backpack. Dammit.
As suspected, when I plopped a 6-pack of Modelo Especial on the counter and asked if they had Southern Comfort in pint bottles, the cashier (who was likely older than me) asked for my ID. Lucky for him, he didn't guffaw when he saw the date on my license. I then handed him my Visa Check Card and asked for a bag, adding "I'm on a bike."
Then it hit me--I'm dressed like a thug, I'm buying beer and hard liquor, and I'm riding a bike.
Everything about me screams "LOSER ALCOHOLIC WHO EITHER LOST HER LICENSE OR HER JOB AND THEREFORE HER CAR. SO DEPRAVED, WILLING TO RIDE BICYCLE TO QUIK TRIP FOR A FIX."
Leaving the store and preparing my bike for takeoff, I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. There was no way I could force any stranger to see that I was really just dressed for comfort and warmth, that I don't own any hooded sweatshirts but my husband does, that I haven't bought liquor of any sort in several weeks because it takes me that long to run out, and that I really just enjoy riding my bike because it's a short ride, the weather is nice, and it's better exercise than shlepping around on a treadmill like a hamster. I had to wonder how many of the losers I've run into over the course of my life were really just in need of a candy bar and hadn't felt like gussying up to run to the gas station?
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Then there was the obvious problem of the package combined with my mode of transport. I looped the bag over my handlebars and mounted my bike. Not even a few feet later, it started to swing. And swing. Swing hard, sweet alllllcohol. So I had to steady the bag with my left hand. The extra weight swinging around on one side made it harder to balance, too, and I found myself weaving a little bit as I tried to keep my bike on the sidewalk. Drunk! Loser!
I don't think I've ever been so happy to get off my bike and crawl to my front door in shame. And once I was inside, I advised my husband "you're lucky you do a lot of nice things for me."
So, just to make a point--I am not, repeat NOT, an alcoholic. I have never had to "blow" in my entire life. I have never had my license suspended (well, other than that time in Omaha when I failed to report an accident, but I assumed since a cop was at the scene, he would have reported it himself--doesn't count). I have not lost my job and/or had my car repo'd because of any drinking problem. My car is in good working order and properly licensed and full of gas. I just enjoy the occasional evening cocktail after I finally get the boy to bed. My husband does too, but prefers exotic foreign beer to bourbon. I also truly enjoy riding my bike, and let's face it, it's the only exercise I get that doesn't involve running to the bathroom or walking to the fridge.
I wonder how big a loser I'd appear to be if I went through the drive-thru at Taco Bell on my bike...
After dinner, I relaxed with a book while Ben and Bob turned their brains to oatmeal with a rousing game of "Lego Star Wars" on the Nintendo. Gazing longingly at my bike, I realized I was fresh out of liquor, and yes, mama does enjoy her evening cocktail after the boy goes to bed. I decided to kill two desires with one trip and ride my bike to QuikTrip.
It was a little chilly, so I traded my pajama pants for jeans, and covered my t-shirt with one of Ben's big gray hooded sweatshirts. (I could fit 3 of myself in there.) Then I added my hot-pink high tops. Realizing I was dressed like some 15-year-old punkass kid, I slipped my license into my pocket in addition to my debit card.
Then I asked The Question You Dare Not Ask:
"Do you need me to get you anything?"
I guess I was banking on the fact he was engrossed in "Lego Star Wars." I should have known better, because he was playing with Bob, and playing a video game with Bob requires less concentration and more patience. He responded to my query with that look, and I knew what his answer was.
"Oh, come on, don't make me get beer..."
A look of hurt confusion.
"I'm taking my bike."
"So just get a 6-pack of cans and have them put it in a bag, and just put the bag over your handlebars. It's not a big deal."
Grmph. Fine. I have carried a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi home on my bike with the aid of a backpack, so a 6-pack wouldn't be such an ordeal.
Except I forgot the backpack. Dammit.
As suspected, when I plopped a 6-pack of Modelo Especial on the counter and asked if they had Southern Comfort in pint bottles, the cashier (who was likely older than me) asked for my ID. Lucky for him, he didn't guffaw when he saw the date on my license. I then handed him my Visa Check Card and asked for a bag, adding "I'm on a bike."
Then it hit me--I'm dressed like a thug, I'm buying beer and hard liquor, and I'm riding a bike.
Everything about me screams "LOSER ALCOHOLIC WHO EITHER LOST HER LICENSE OR HER JOB AND THEREFORE HER CAR. SO DEPRAVED, WILLING TO RIDE BICYCLE TO QUIK TRIP FOR A FIX."
Leaving the store and preparing my bike for takeoff, I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. There was no way I could force any stranger to see that I was really just dressed for comfort and warmth, that I don't own any hooded sweatshirts but my husband does, that I haven't bought liquor of any sort in several weeks because it takes me that long to run out, and that I really just enjoy riding my bike because it's a short ride, the weather is nice, and it's better exercise than shlepping around on a treadmill like a hamster. I had to wonder how many of the losers I've run into over the course of my life were really just in need of a candy bar and hadn't felt like gussying up to run to the gas station?
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Then there was the obvious problem of the package combined with my mode of transport. I looped the bag over my handlebars and mounted my bike. Not even a few feet later, it started to swing. And swing. Swing hard, sweet alllllcohol. So I had to steady the bag with my left hand. The extra weight swinging around on one side made it harder to balance, too, and I found myself weaving a little bit as I tried to keep my bike on the sidewalk. Drunk! Loser!
I don't think I've ever been so happy to get off my bike and crawl to my front door in shame. And once I was inside, I advised my husband "you're lucky you do a lot of nice things for me."
So, just to make a point--I am not, repeat NOT, an alcoholic. I have never had to "blow" in my entire life. I have never had my license suspended (well, other than that time in Omaha when I failed to report an accident, but I assumed since a cop was at the scene, he would have reported it himself--doesn't count). I have not lost my job and/or had my car repo'd because of any drinking problem. My car is in good working order and properly licensed and full of gas. I just enjoy the occasional evening cocktail after I finally get the boy to bed. My husband does too, but prefers exotic foreign beer to bourbon. I also truly enjoy riding my bike, and let's face it, it's the only exercise I get that doesn't involve running to the bathroom or walking to the fridge.
I wonder how big a loser I'd appear to be if I went through the drive-thru at Taco Bell on my bike...
posted by Mitzi Green at 11:37 AM
3 Comments:
Another reason to love you.
Southern Comfort.
g, it was janis joplin's drink of choice. and if it's good enough for janis, it's good enough for me. :)
Modelo Especial <---"exotic foreign beer" - your mid-west is showing (wink)
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