Well, it’s over. Done. Finished. Finito. No more. Gone. Dead. In short, so long Sober Movember—may we never meet again.
This was, by far, the most boring month of my life. Now, boring wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—it was nice to have nothing to do but sit in my chair, read my book and watch football. I had a legitimate excuse for not going to trendy over-priced, cover-charging clubs which I loathe, but seem to get invited to regularly. I’m down two notches on my belt, and I haven’t done a lick of exercising (by my estimates, about 12 pounds). So, there were some good things that came out of this.
Yesterday, I had what can only be described as the most unfathomably bad day of my career thus far. I won’t go into details, but by the time I walked out the door at 5:15pm last night, I was miserable. Beyond miserable. I’ll take you through a timeline of my evening.
5:15 – Leave work.
5:45 – Enter grocery store.
5:45:01 – Make a B-line for the beer aisle.
5:45:15 – Have wave of euphoria hit me as I enter the aisle, knowing that I no longer have to avert my eyes like I was looking at the Ark of the Covenant a la Raiders of the Lost Ark.
6:02 – Finally finish giddily pacing up and down the aisle, make selection of beer.
6:03 – Leave beer aisle with a twelve-pack of Full Sail Sessions Lager, six-packs of Widmer BRRR! and Bridgeport Ebenezer, 26oz bottle of Rogue Double Dead Guy, 22oz bottles of Deschutes Abyss and Dechutes Black Butte XII
6:04 – Realize that I have what can only be described as a shit-ton of ABV and IBU in my cart, and nothing to absorb said ABV.
6:06 – Get bread, sandwich meat and cheese. Feel better about myself for not loading up completely on beer.
6:10 – Go to check-stand, get $66 total, $58 of which is on beer. No longer feel good about myself for buying food while I was at it, but don’t really care.
6:15 – Get home. Turn on Michigan State/North Carolina basketball game.
6:16 – Call Betsy, make her listen as I open the Double Dead Guy.
6:45 – Finish Double Dead Guy, realize that I am, in fact, pretty buzzed (the Rogue Double Dead Guy is 9.2% ABV and only comes in a 26 oz bottle, so that’s like drinking 4.5 beers in one shot. Cut me a little slack here).
6:47 – Make sandwich, crack open a BRRR! Only a 12oz bottle, but 7.2% ABV. Not shabby.
7:00 – Drunk.
7:05 – Get calls from many people asking me if I’m drunk yet. HELL YEAH I’M DRUNK! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo
9:30 – Finish talking on the phone to people
10:00 – A little hazy. Tried to watch Heroes, I think? End up missing Victoria Secret Fashion Show. Shit. I was exhausted and a little boozed-up. Cut me some slack.
5:30am – By the grace of god, somehow wake up at 5:30 with a minor hangover, laptop on chest (battery drained), and with none of my alarms set to go off. Way to go, body—thanks for waking me up on time.
So there’s a brief rundown of my first night in the realm of boozery. I am what can only be called a lightweight in comparison to the Jeff Kennedy of October 31, 2009. I’m also a lightweight in comparison to, well, everyone. The alcohol-content-equivalent of six beers, and I was on my lips. Dear lord, did I just time-travel back to my freshman year? I was like a virgin, touched for the very first time.
All that being said, I had it built up in my head that the first sip of that sweet nectar from the gods to touch my lip would be nigh-orgasmic in experience. It wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, it was pretty darn good, but I guess I had just built up my expectations too high. But beer, honey, don’t ever leave me again. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough to keep me from loving you.
So, this is the end of Sober Movember. I know you’ll all be distraught to not read what I have to say on a pseudo-daily basis. But fear not, fair readers! My buddy Deaton and I are starting a yet-to-be-named blog about general dudery: booze, boobs, sports, sarcasm—you know, the good stuff. We’re still tossing around a few names before we get started, so stay tuned for the latest and greatest in JK blog news.