I’m wearing narrow leg, European jeans, a designer button down with tie, Jack Parcell Converse and sitting at a downtown patio pub, the name of which I can’t recall. I’m here because the sign out front claims, “Happy Hour! $2 You Call Its!” This will make my colleagues happy. The sun is setting and the temperature is falling just as quickly. I order my fifth coffee and tense my body to shield a cool breeze as the rest of my party arrives. It’s six o’clock and by the sound of things, they’ve already had several drinks. Elevated voices. Increased physical contact. Giddy laughter. Confidence.
My coffee arrives as I feign enthusiasm. Despite the deluge of caffeine, I’m pretty tired and a happy hour without spirits is sounding more and more like an oxymoron. These are my friends, though, so I play along and convince myself I’m having fun. Perception is reality. My saving grace has been my imagination. Discarding all inhibition is difficult to do without a whiskey backer, but I manage and allow myself to have a good time. I’m laughing, shouting, flirting, entertaining. It’s exhausting, but I’ve still got it. Hours have passed and we settle our check. Cheeks are kissed, red faces are shoveled into cabs and once again, I’m sitting at a downtown patio pub, the name of which I can’t recall. Sobriety is a full-time job. Today is day thirty-one. I should have worn a jacket. I’m cold.
