HAPPY HOUR?
Sorta Sober
A journal, of sorts
Author’s note: The following piece originally appeared in my Substack, Sherry Raw.
The other day, I was running numbers in my head. Primary among them is my age. I turned seventy-one in April and have yet to recover. By that, I mean I can’t fathom being this old. Although seventy was way tougher. Like a sledgehammer to the head followed by a boot in the ass. By someone wearing cleats.
For those of you who aren’t there yet, if you think turning fifty is a milestone, wait until you hit sixty and beyond. Once you’re out of your sixth decade when it’s still possible to lie to yourself about who and what you’re becoming, and what your future as an old fuck might hold, it’s damn near game over.
Although it beats the alternative (yeah, yeah, I know), aging is a bitter pill. Rather than embrace the process, and sink into it, like others seem to do, I wrestle it to the ground, or try to, with a barrage of supplements, vigorous workouts, and conversations with myself where the primary message is, “Sherry, you can beat this!”
I don’t want to die.
That said, there was another number that poked through my gray matter and caught me up short and that was the sobering reality that I’ve been a boozer for over fifty years.
