Tonight, I had a telephone conversation with one of my dearest friends, Michael. Michael is a workout fanatic. He has been this way for years, and has the body of a Greek God to show for it. Women fall at his feet, weeping and begging for attention, because he's just so damned good looking. Fortunately, I am immune to Michael's hotness, which means for the past seventeen or eighteen years, we have been able to love one another without our otherworldly hotness getting in the way of our relationship. (Yeah, okay, so I'm not actually as hot as Michael. Not even. But that doesn't stop me from claiming to be, nor telling him that he's actually not all that good looking and should get over himself.)
As usual, our conversation turned to the gym at some point, as the gym makes up a large portion of Michael's life (because he likes to lift) and because I am there quite often myself (because the gym provides childcare and it's the only free time I get some days). After a brief discussion about my extensive cardio pursuits, Michael says, "Well, I hope you aren't binging on alcohol and then doing all that cardio just to burn off the calories."
Dude. Why the fuck else would I be there?
Hey, Michael--do you have my kids? YOU HEARD ME, YO. DO YOU HAVE MY KIDS? No. I think not. Last time I checked, your life consisted of a hell of a lot of peace and solitude and zen. How long has it been since I have had peace, solitude or zen? Hmmmm......let's see.....Bellamy will be seven on June thirteenth, so NEARLY SEVEN FREAKIN' YEARS. I can't even shower in peace, as there is always someone ripping open the curtain saying, "Hey! It's boobies!" or "I spilled my cup of juice in the fridge!" Dinner, with me frequently the only parent available, is high drama ("I don't like shrimp on Mondays!") as is breakfast ("You cooked my oatmeal! I don't like it cooked! I only like it in the microwave!") as is EVERY DAMN MOMENT OF EVERY DAMN DAY. So, hell yeah I drink. We're lucky I'm not also addicted to Oxycontin and Snickers bars, weighing in at four-hundred pounds and with a raging reality tv habit. I eat super healthy, I go constantly to the gym, I manage my diabetes and pay my taxes and make sure my house is clean and my children are safe. Additionally, I know all the words to "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and make regular donations to Goodwill and the Humane Society. I'm square with Jesus. I'm good to go.
If you have to have an organ give out on you, I think the liver is your best bet. I've already got a dead pancreas, so why do I care if I kill off another body part? I don't. And at this point, it's my liver or my sanity, and my sanity is giving my liver the finger, as it holds a dirty martini in the other hand.
And that, my friends, is just how it is.