Wednesday, January 16, 2013
It just goes to show that no matter how far we remove ourselves from alcohol or how deep we fall into its depths, we are never immune to its insidious nature.
No, I'm not hungover from booze, instead I am suffering from a run-of-the-mill travel hangover. A full day of travel on Monday and I'm still wiped out on Wednesday. Plus, I threw away all my hard work on the no-sugar, no caffeine treatise I had issued for my body and I'm sure the overload is compounding the sluggishness.
Yesterday as I was struggling with the lock on our gate and getting frustrated by the simple task, my tiredness making everything seem Herculean monumental, I realized that I used to feel this very same way almost every single day. Just a short 18 months or so ago.
Re: the picture of the Camote (sweet potato) above and the bar I went to yesterday. My favorite place for camarones empanizada down here is a local fishermen's bar called Camote's. Camote, himself, is a fisherman and local legend has it that his nickname is derived from the camote's resemblance to a certain part of his anatomy. (That's an image I could live without).
Anyway I was kind of congratulating myself on the fact that I made a few phone calls and pretty soon we had three tables lined up in this bar full of mi amigos drinking beer and eating fried fish in all of its forms. Kind of proud that the gal who no longer imbibes can still get the party rolling.
And, if I may add, never even thought about having a drink.
Then I read that post this morning.
Just because the giant is sleeping, doesn't mean its not still dangerous. It's always laying in wait.