Last night I announced to Justin that I hadn’t had any wine — or any alcohol at all, for that matter — since Saturday.

He made me hold out my hand to determine whether I had the withdrawal shakes.

As I held my hand out, palm-down, and feigned an exaggerated shake accompanied by an even more exaggerated eye twitch, I realized that sometimes it’s good to listen to your body.  And, after Saturday’s night out for my boss’s birthday following Friday night at Justin’s work Christmas party with an open bar, my body was telling me that it’s time for a detox.

Since my drinking habits normally don’t involve more than a glass (or two) of wine in the evenings, a binger I am not.  With the exception of this past weekend, obviously.

But I recently noticed something… something disturbing.  It no longer seemed as though, when I poured a glass, that I was taking the time to enjoy it.  To notice its color.  Its scent.  The way its legs coated the sides of the glass and the flavor as it rolled over my tongue.

It was just a drink.

Something to wash down my food.

And if that’s going to be the case, I may as well drink water.  Or tea.

Fewer calories, you see.

So, my body will remain vino-free until it tells me its ready to enjoy it again.  Which I expect will be Friday, when I take a girlfriend out to a new wine bar in town for a much-needed drink.  On her part, not mine.

The Christmas party was at the fancy, dancy Pinehurst Club once again this year, and this year I actually managed to don a dress.  Although no Kindles were won on my part, I did manage to make tipsy best friends with a Colonel’s wife before we (Justin, me, and some other enlisted stragglers, that is — not the Colonel’s wife) worked our way over to a low-key pub (much more my style) for a nightcap.  All-in-all, I paced myself well, drank plenty of water, and managed to feel decent enough to help a friend move on Saturday morning.

Then Saturday night happened.

It was my boss’s birthday party.  Food was ordered.  Bottles of wine were bought.  And somehow — somehow — my glass stayed full, no matter how much I drank.  For dessert, someone handed me a vodka tonic.

Then we went dancing.  I can’t dance to save my life.  I’m pretty sure I probably looked like a pug trying to swim — all wiggly and uncoordinated and ultimately spinning in circles when I knew more should be happening, if I could only just get all of my parts to cooperate.

“Don’t think about it so much!” yelled my dance partner for the evening over the blaring music.  “Just let it happen!”

Sarah, who was my boss’s business partner’s stunningly adorable fiancée (picture a young Jenna Elfman and just as cool), had professional dancing experience, it turns out, which allowed her to describe dancing like it can just happen, like an orgasm, and managed to make me look even more doofy than normal standing all gangly and awkward next to the petit blonde with the pixie cut and flying feather earrings who was trying her damnedest to teach me how to Dougie but it just. wasn’t. happening.

(Cali Swag District – Teach Me How to Dougie)

So I took another slug of my frozen chocolaty concoction, and while it certainly didn’t improve my dancing, it somewhat took away the fact that I cared.

And this is why, on Sunday morning, I felt like maybe someone let a donkey into our bedroom in the middle of the night.  A donkey that proceeded to kick me in the head.

Repeatedly.

And by Sunday afternoon, when my body felt like that of a withered 90-year-old man, I thought that maybe it was time to reevaluate this whole drinking-to-get drunk concept.  At 22?  Sure, it was no problem.  I could bounce back and rally with the rest of ’em.  But at 29?  Not so much.  It doesn’t help that my boss is 2 years younger than me.

Have I mentioned that?

It doesn’t really bother me.

Much.

So.  I’m making a declaration — it’s only like the 56th or 57th time I’ve done this — to not bother with drunkenness anymore.  A glass of wine?  Sure thing.  A healthy writer’s buzz?  Yessiree.  Attempting to dance with someone who knows how to dance and happens to be the only other white chick in the club?

No, thank you.

But that’s the thing about excessive alcohol.  Like a love-worn frenemy or a toxic relationship, you don’t even realize the bad stuff is happening until it feels too late to turn back.

Post title from the song Alcohol, by the Barenaked Ladies.  It’s surprisingly poignant.

Barenaked Ladies – Alcohol

I thought that Alcohol was just for those with nothing else to do
I thought that drinking just to get drunk was a waste of precious booze
But now I know that there’s a time and there’s a place where I can choose
To walk the fine line between self control… and self abuse

I’m pretty sure I have a curse.

Not that I’m personally afflicted by a curse, per se, but I carry a curse which affects things around me.

Electronic things, specifically.

Now.  I’m not one of those completely obtuse people when it comes to all things electronic.  The fact that there are wires connected to other wires connected to various pieces of equipment doesn’t scare me.  I know word processing and spreadsheets and file types and images and even a bit o’ HTML for you webpage tinkering types.  So.  While I’m no computer genius, I’m not completely oblivious, either.

They’re just machines, right?

There is no logical reason for them to succumb to my curse — to know that it’s me, not Justin, tapping away at their keyboards.

Yet somehow, they do.

It’s like I’m King Midas.  Except instead of everything I touch turning to gold (which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be all bad), every computer I touch turns to shit.  And I’m sorry I’m so addicted to swearing Mom, but there is no nicer way to put this.

Two — count ’em, two computers have turned to steaming coils of doodoo just at the touch of my hands in the past week.

Thankfully I live with an un-cursed person who’s managed to save all of my data thus far, but the computers?  They’re dropping like flies on a bug zapper.  Minus the smoke and the funky smell.  Which, frankly, wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

And this little phenomenon isn’t exactly convenient for my job — my job which involves writing and photo editing and submitting to people who run a gigantic website and simply don’t have time to listen to my sob story about fried hard drives and cold, lifeless motherboards and how I would have my piece done except I’m waiting for a full version of PhotoShop to install on a dinosaur of a laptop — a laptop which, hopefully, doesn’t yet understand that it’s doomed at my hands and will hold out long enough for me to finish my latest submission to Re-Nest.

That is, if it doesn’t crash while I’m writing this post.

And it’s things like these that make me long for the days of the simple machines — of typewriters and corded phones cassette tapes and VHS — things that didn’t scratch or crack or short a fuse when you tossed ’em around.  Back in the day, technology could take a beating.

It wasn’t all prissy and didn’t ask to be handled with silk-effing-gloves.

I know old technology had its own set of frustrations, but sometimes I just miss wrapping a coiled phone cord around my waist while standing in the kitchen talking to my friends.

So.  I have to buy a new computer now.  Preferably one that can stand up to my particular brand of curse.

Any suggestions?

Here are my thoughts on gift-giving.  Because I know you care.

I think we all know, by this point, that an efficient shopper I am not.  This is why I’m terrified of Black Friday and why it took me approximately 5 hours to buy blinds for the kitchen online when I set out to buy curtains for the bedroom.

And why I still don’t have curtains for the bedroom.

The problem is that I love giving gifts.

I mean… who doesn’t like hearing that someone is happy because of something you gave them?

In fact, I’ll go so far as to say gift-giving is inherently selfish for that reason, but it’s completely awesome selfishness because the recipient happens to benefit as well.

But, when I set out to find some kind of appropriate gift for specific dates and events (ie. Christmas, birthdays, weddings, etc.), I feel all pressured and sweaty and confined and if I’m shopping in public, I might get a wily look in my eye that makes people — even crowds — give me a 3-foot berth and run the other direction when I try to ask them whether they think Aunt Betsy would prefer the red-knit socks from Macy’s, or if I should just go back and get the ones from Target because they’re $3 cheaper and she’ll never know anyway and CRAP did I just buy her socks last year because she’s always complaining that her feet are cold?, and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to buy her anything red ever because it triggers the pyro tendencies and don’t-look-at-my-eye-twitch-because-clearly-everyone-ELSE-in-my-family-is-crazy-but-not-me-not-ME!

If I’m shopping online, the ordeal is even worse (though decidedly less detrimental to the general public).  I basically start with one idea, then spend hours following internet wormholes and reading reviews and finding the best deal without shipping and then with shipping and then one reviewer said I should maybe try this other item instead and the process starts all over until finally I throw my computer out of the window and pour a glass of wine.

And now, to complicate matters even more, all these babies are popping into my life.  (And they definitely didn’t come with kalamatas or 6-packs.)

Like *I* know what to buy for babies.

Look, kid.  Until your mom lets me take you to your first concert, Auntie Katie only gives out books (which you’ll probably hate until you’re in your 20’s), hugs (although they’ll probably feel awkward because I didn’t grow up in a huggy family), and advice about life (which you never asked for because you know it will be the truth, and no one wants to hear that).

Also, maybe one day I’ll let you borrow my cool thrift-store leather jacket.

Registries do make things easier when it comes to events like weddings and baby showers.  In fact, I’m kind of in love with registries and think that maybe people should keep one all of the time, like in the form of an Amazon.com wishlist, where I can just easily type in their name, see what they want, and a couple of clicks later I’m chillin’ on the sofa with the cerveza and olives that didn’t come with a baby.

But that does take the fun out of gift-giving.  After all, if the recipient already knows what she’s getting, and I don’t get to see that surprised-yet-thrilled look on her face or receive that thankyou-thankyou-thankyou phone call that makes giving gifts so damn gratifying.

Hey.  I’m just being honest.

So I really think we should just abolish this whole gift thing altogether.

Well, not all-together.  But we should stop with the obligatory gift-giving.

Sometimes, when I’m walking through a farmer’s market or a foreign book store or perusing pictures on Pinterest, I find the perfect gift for someone.

I mean, I’m pretty sure this person has to have this gift, and he has to have it right now.

The problem?  It’s June.

And his birthday was in May.

And Christmas isn’t for another 6 months.

And anyway, he’s Jewish.

So now I have to either save the darn thing until next year so I’m not short a gift when the nerves hit because there’s too much pressure, OR I can just give it to him now.  And now worry about whether or not I’ve found something for his next birthday.

And the thing about gift-giving excitement is, sometimes it doesn’t keep.  Maybe the recipient will no longer need this item next year, or maybe he’ll have new interests entirely, or maybe he’ll be dead, or maybe worse you’ll be dead, and the intended recipient will find the gift tucked away in your closet, and he’ll know who it was for because it was just that perfect, and now he can never get any enjoyment out of it because every time he sees it he’ll be reminded of how you were shot in a mall parking lot when you walked up to a patron muttering about red socks and arson and you twitched a lot so he thought maybe you had rabies so he did what he had to do to protect his family.

These things happen.

All because we’re supposed to give gifts when the time is right — not when the gift is right.

And really, what’s better than receiving a gift when you don’t expect it?

But I’m thinking that all of this is probably just me.

Because I’m an inefficient shopper.

Do they have support groups for this?

Okay.  I’m back.

Now, maybe life can return to some semblance of normalcy (BOR-ing).

Or, maybe not.

It seems my days are filling up insanely fast, and for someone who’s not used to having any type of social calendar — or any type of calendar at all, I’m a little overwhelmed.

Some people are good at this.  When presented with large lists of to-dos and schedules and time frames, they immediately jump in — tackling the onslaught like taking a sledgehammer to a brick wall.

Others, like me, become paralyzed with indecision.

There are too many choices.  Where do I start?

My time is valuable, you know?  And I want to make the most of what I have.

Which is exactly why I opt out of Black Friday every year.

What?

You heard me.

Black Friday.  That horrendous day that used to be reserved solely for nursing tryptophan hangovers and detoxing the cranberry sauce from our systems and reflecting on the thanks we gave yesterday for all of the things we’re fortunate to have has somehow, via very deliberate media and marketing ploys, turned into a day of dragging our food-filled butts out of bed in the middle of the night to stand in line and then fight with perfect strangers over all of the things we still want.

Sure.

Makes perfect sense.

Of course, if you’re a Black Friday fanatic, I’m not going to change your mind.  You’ve heard it all before — it’s turned into a high-stress, competitive day of finagling and bargaining and deal-gettin’, the likes of which you only witness en masse but once per year, and you love it.

And there’s no way I’m going to convince you otherwise.

But.

For me, at least, beyond the traffic and the frenzy and the gimme gimme attitude, there’s a bigger reason why I opt out of Black Friday.

The deals aren’t worth it.

At least not for me.

And probably my definition of “cost” is different than your definition of “cost.”

What??  I could save 40% off a flat screen television?

Don’t care.

And 25% off a new washer and dryer?

Whatevs.

And if I buy one Magic Bullet with the complete accessory kit, they’ll throw in another identical bullet plus the kind that makes baby food in baby-sized portions for free?

Meh.

You see, it all comes down to what you perceive as a deal.

Bu– but– a deal is a DEAL, you say?

Not so much.

What if I did need a new dryer?  What if I really could save $200 off the ticket price if I woke up at 2 a.m., stood outside in the cold for 2 hours in a squishy line of tense people, rushed mob-style through the department store doors, dodging angry women with flying purses and pepper spray and competitive adrenaline, jumping over the bodies of those too weak to handle the pressure, pushing slow-moving children and the elderly out of my way like some maniacal greed-driven beast, jumping through the air and splaying my body across the last dryer in the store because it’s MINE, all MINE — and get-back-you-bitch-because-I-WILL-bite-you, and finally — finally — I get home with my new dryer.

And get this:  it only cost me $400, 6 hours of sleep, the flu from standing with germy people outside in the cold, 2 years off of my life from the stress of the ordeal, and, oh yeah, my dignity.

But at least I saved $200.

See my point?

For the longest time, I’ve maintained the very real and personal belief that I was born sometime in the mid 1940’s, lived passionately in the ’60’s, and died of a dramatic drug overdose (is there any other kind?) sometime in the 70’s.

I came back in a hurry as a child of the ’80’s so I wouldn’t miss anything, but it turns out, unfortunately, I did.

I feel this way mainly because of a strong, inexplicable affinity for Vietnam era music and the television show, The Wonder Years.  I feel no such connection to feathered bangs and slap bracelets.  And Nick Carter couldn’t hold a candle to John Lennon.

I mean, really?

But there’s just something about the innocence of a time prior to all of the distractions of the present day — when answers came from actual books instead of Google, when entertainment came from imagination before television, and when people actually understood their cause.

Photo by Burk Uzzle.

Well… for the most part.

Photo by Burk Uzzle

The world was a scary place, for sure, but still there was hope.

And I think that maybe I would have liked to live then — when reporting still involved research and passion and integrity.  When family and friends conversed with each other during meals instead of fondling their phones.  When people became famous for doing extraordinary things — not how pretty they were or how many sex tapes they filmed or how envious they made us of their shallow lives.  When little girls were beginning to learn their intellectual worth, dreaming about building careers as scientists or writers or soldiers — not about how famous they could become for bleaching their hair, using their friends, and doing nothing of memorable note.

I realize it’s not healthy to live in the past.  Especially when, if you don’t believe in reincarnation, I never actually lived in the past.

But here’s the thing.

I think that maybe we’re forgetting ourselves here.

We’re too worried about how many Facebook friends we have rather than building real relationships.  We’re filling the empty parts of ourselves with stuff we don’t really want because it’s too hard or too time consuming or too terrifying to think about what might really be missing.

None of this is revolutionary, of course.

But think about this for a minute, the next time you look down at your phone when there’s a real, live person in front of you — the next time you tell a little girl how pretty she is instead of asking her about her favorite book — the next time you spend hours watching and envying how celebrities live their lives:

Life is built on experiences — the stimulation of conversation, the taste of good food, the reminiscing of a day well spent.  So maybe, just for a night, we should turn off our phones and experience it.

*Steps down from pedestal.*

I was watching a show the other day that took place Great Britain in the early 1900’s where the characters wore black arm bands when they were in mourning.

I don’t know if you knew this, but people died a lot in the early 1900’s.  I’m pretty sure it’s because they didn’t have Echinacia.

Or Viagra.

Or iPhones.

But one thing they did seem to have was an inherent understanding of the fact that people can’t read other people’s minds.

Bear with me for a sec.

I think you’ll find it hard to disagree that most people, at least here in America, are pretty self-absorbed when it comes to their day-to-day business.  When we order our triple-shot-chai-caramel-mocha-latteatto from the pony-tailed, too skinny girl behind the counter at S’bucks, we’re not concerned about what kind of morning she’s having.  We’re not worried about whether or not she’ll pass her mid-term or get into law school get an abortion.  We just want our damn coffee, because WE are having a DAY.

So we might be a bit snippy with the skinny latte maker — we might be too busy thinking about how she must be thinking about how cool we are in our work skirts and ties and rushing off to a busy busy day to notice the fact that she’s actually thinking about her mother, who’s somewhere in Afghanistan and hasn’t called home in 4 days.

Or her boyfriend, who just dumped her for a skinnier latte.

Which brings me back to the arm band thing.  While politeness and compassion are virtues that we should probably practice all of the time, it’s sometimes easy to get wrapped up in our own little whirlwind wonderlands and forget that there are other people in other wonderlands that, on occasion, are actually sometimes a wee bit more jarring than or own.

And maybe, had we known that one of these little satellites within our colossal orbit was having a bad day, we would have been a little nicer.  Or understanding.  Or… equipped.

I’m talking about mood bands, people.

If the dumpee at S’bucks were wearing a red arm band to symbolize just how ticked off she is at the world, we’d know to leave her the eff alone.

And maybe give her a slightly bigger tip.

And maybe hit on her, depending on our gender or sexual orientation.

Or, if our co-worker shows up to the office wearing a black arm band to symbolize mourning, we know not to heckle him too much about his losing football team.  Unless the band is for mourning that loss, in which case he’s abusing the system and should be heckled to no end.

Our waitress is wearing a green arm band?  Perfect!  She’s happy and helpful and will likely fill our drinks in a timely fashion.  But watch what you say — if you cross the line of rudeness and she returns wearing red, you might want to pass on dessert.

I’m thinking I could be on to something big here.

The thing about the woods is that they can be quite beautiful and quite terrifying, all at the same time.

Photo taken with iPhone.

The good thing is that when you’re on a designated path in a state park, they’re a lot more beautiful and a lot less terrifying.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Unless you’re me, and you inadvertently lead your party astray from said path and out into the dense wilderness where every shadow is suspect, every rustle sounds menacing, and the legs of your fellow backpackers start resembling those of fried chicken drumsticks.

Extra crispy.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Fortunately, I stumbled back onto the path without even realizing I’d been off of it, and my much more wood-savvy companions were apparently aware that we were leaving the path and didn’t say anything because they, for some inexplicable reason regardless of knowing me, thought that I knew what I was doing.

Pfffft!

The truth is, I never know what I’m doing.

Like, at all.

I’m just stumbling blindly along like the rest of us.

And sometimes I can feel it when I’ve left the path, but other times I can’t.

Photo taken with iPhone

Rarely, as it did yesterday in Raven Rock State Park, does my inadvertent wandering turn into a bonafide short cut.

Photo taken with iPhone

So my lessons from our hike?

1)  Sometimes you have to look for even the most obvious paths, but wandering aside every now and again to enjoy the scenery isn’t the worst idea in the world.  Unless, of course, we’re speaking in the literal woods-hiking sense, in which case wandering from the path can be extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.  (Anyone read The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon?)

2)  On my own, trekking through the wilderness, I wouldn’t last a day.

I’m just glad that no fried chickens — or human appendages — were harmed during the hike.

Photo taken with iPhone

(By the way, my comrades saw the path switchback ahead of us, so while they knew it was a shortcut and weren’t just allowing me to blindly lead them astray, I had to expertly cover my shock at stumbling upon a path when I thought we’d already been on the path.  This is why you should always bring smart people with you while wandering through the woods.)