T is for Therapy

I used to be this somewhat-polished party girl who loved going to bars, sipping from a pint glass of Cazadores margarita on the rocks (hold the salt), and dancing till the break of dawn—the key words being “used to.” These days, living on the edge means steeping my decaffeinated tea more than five minutes and going to bed at nine thirty, which I consider way past my bed time.

“The old Shellie’s back.” Sophia had repeated what her husband was so clearly jubilant about. It was the day after Tim and Karen’s pre-wedding celebration and the day of their wedding. An offensive sour odor wafted; there next to the bed a stockpot and the wastebasket lined with plastic. My organic 800-thread count Donna Karan European sham stained with last night’s cosmetic debacle. My brain throbbed and my head spun. I partied like it was 1999 the night before, throwing down shots of chilled Patron one after another, regardless of my tolerance, which was the immense size of a germ.

Angela entered the bedroom with frightful treats. “Okay, who wants an Egg McMuffin?” I was disappointed with myself. I had gone almost three years with no fast food. “Honey, you still have this from last night?” My sweet husband pointed to the brown Burger King bag—stale, full of my blurred memory. “You didn’t touch it at all.” They both laughed. One of the many reasons why I don’t drink is my fascination for fast food. I shamefully ate my quicker-picker-dumper, hoping it would ease my spinning head and soak up the alcohol. The second helping of hash browns was not my saving grace.

“Okay, I gotta go get this to KJ,” Angela said, pointing to another McDonalds order, “before it gets cold.” We thanked her for making a stop. I rolled over to appease my throbbing brain. It was that day, in that dying moment, that I realized my love for tequila and its fellowship had taken a back seat. This coming from a person who worshipped Reposado and nothing but.

Since my pregnancy, I have grown accustomed to a glass of nice wine or glass of champagne. I enjoy the pace of grapes. Grapes never made me dance on a bar. Grapes never made me scratch my head in wonderment as to where that large bruise on my arm came from. Grapes never made me the center of a manwich or womanwich on a dance floor. Grapes are the marijuana of the alcohol phenomena. Perhaps, grapes were behind my altruism. I needed an instant demise stat.