Tonight is special. I will endure my 9 hours on the job, with an hour break at Caribou to spend money I shouldn’t on something I can make at home, all for the end reward of my most prized delicious trifecta: ambience, drinks, friend (order subject to change).
Happy Hour. A moment of silence please.
Mentioned friend has a business meeting at one of my preferred establishments, so I shall join her afterwards for some economically priced adult beverages. I could care less about food. You see, alcohol has calories too, and in the complicated science of a twentysomething year-old body, alcohol trumps eats in both purpose & pleasure. Food shmood, nothing will give me the ahhhh feeling like a warm Pinot Noir slipping through my veins. My boss telling me I'm vindictive & spiteful because I didn't want to go to Buffalo Wild Wings for lunch will be nothing but a distant memory. I don’t need flatbread pizza blocking the transport straight to my blood stream.
Is that bad?
Now before you put me under citizens arrest, I’m not saying I’ll get wino’d out and behave/act recklessly. I’ll have one, maybe two. I’m no danger to society. Yet so many out there view this behavior as crazy. You know what I think is crazy? Having a cocktail and a huge plate of buffalo tenders. You took an enjoyable guiltless pleasure (glass of red wine daily is recommended and high in antioxidants), added some hydrogenated oils and .5 lbs of body fat, and probably spent an extra $10 to feel bloated and lethargic. Not to mention we're going to have messy napkins crowding our fine leather purses on the bar.
So no, I don’t think my behavior is so bad. I’ll be the perfectly content gal smiling contentedly at the bar.
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