I was remembering - probably eight or nine years ago - when I got so excited that a beer garden was set up in the middle of DIA. The breweries weren't remarkable, and Mitch and I must've been waiting for our ride. So we sat with our luggage and drank some tasters out of four-ounce novelty glasses with airplanes on them. I was thrilled. What a treat. What an adventure. We were adults and the world was ours. Pleasure could be found anywhere.
The ability to drink beer has lost some of its shine since then. Maybe it's because I'm not so newly 21. Maybe it's because enough of our friends have already become alcoholics or gone sober. Mitch said, "It's not ad adventure anymore, it's more like medicine." Which I said felt very dark.
My parents aren't drinkers. Plastic handles of blueberry schnapps and bottom-tier tequila stay in their liquor cabinet for decades. If my dad wants to go crazy, he drinks a Mike's hard lemonade.
It's been a drink or two a day for me since quarantine (which at this point has lasted almost a year). It's a treat, a shortcut, a way to tell my body to slow down, that the working day is over. Because the working day never feels over. Because maybe it's not really over until you've done all the work, which is never going to run out.
I still like a good beer. A piney west-coast IPA -- no haze, -- a black lager, a crisp full-flavored pilsner. I've been staring at this last line for a while, not knowing how to end it. So I'll just sign off. It's time to start work.
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