At 3:30 today I poured myself a glass of Lillet rouge. It was too early for happy hour, and unusual for me to open the door of the fridge and poor a sweet, alcoholic drink in the middle of the day. But that’s what I did. It’s 4:30 now, and my glass is still half full, which makes me feel like somewhat less of a lush.
Your glass is half full?, you say. Yes, it’s half full.
I’ve gotten to this point where nothing feels right. Problems at work. An imploding profession. A salary that tanked over the past two years. I’ve enough reasons to complain today.
But my glass is half full. And I’m leaving it that way just to make a point.
I’m not so sure it’s working, though. After all, if I drink, more can be given. But if I leave it there as some kind of rotting reminder of past bounty, how can it ever be refilled with new, chillier things? Maybe I’m digging my own grave with all this negativism.
I just took a sip.
The spider carcass that I squished behind a book yesterday still sits on the window sill behind my half-full glass, a leggy reminder of my inner turmoil. Here it goes. Drink or be the spider carcass.
This is where it starts.