Drying Up

This post title does not refer to Bush's approval rating. Rather, it's the recent status of our wild boozing life. OK, we never considered ourselves party animal boozehounds...but an occasional beverage was consumed, an occasional clock strike of 3AM was witnessed, and an occasional pool of vomit was found below my car's floormat. (If anyone's grandma is reading this, I beg your pardon...ah, you know what, forget it; you probably had these crazy days yourself.)

I've been faintly aware of our diminished outings over the last few months, with hardly a regret. But two days ago, on St. Patrick's Day, the fact that we've been living like Mr. Rogers become keenly evident. Around 6:30PM I went jogging along Gertrude's Walk in downtown Orlando. This bricked urban trail begins at City Hall's parking garage and runs north for several blocks. It was a calm warm evening, nearing sunset. As I was heading back, I crossed Church Street--party central in the real Orlando (that is, outside of the theme parks). As I ran past a new bar called Brick and Fire, I saw that St. Pat's happy hour was about to get going. Bar hops were setting up tables and barstools and filling up beer tubs. Cheapo green plastic decor adorned the brick walls and wood railings. Music was playing, and a dozen or so very non-pregnant singles of both genders sat around, some giving me a stare down as I jogged past glistening with sweat.

This experience left me with only a slight lament for my less staid former days; I'm too hyped over the 'fun' to come. But, though our responsibilities will mushroom, we're not dead yet. I will yet again find myself with a green beer. I won't, however, find it under my floormat.