Falling Off The Wagon

Webster's dictionary defines moderation as follows:

mod·er·a·tion \ˌmä-də-ˈrā-shən\ noun without excess; moderately; temperately: to drink in moderation.

I should have read that a lot sooner. It's now my new mantra. There's something to be said for falling off the workout wagon. There's something else to be said when the wagon runs you over, backs up and runs you over again then parks on your head. "Moderation" is usually not something I like to even consider, so when we were out and about the other night -- oh boy. I should have that definition taped directly to my forehead for future reference.

The onslaught of recovery mode has taught me a very good lesson - well, a few good lessons. 1/ Don't party like it's 1999 - simply because it's not; 2/ The body becomes very less forgiving about these indiscretions the older I get. I am on day 2 of recovery and still wondering who was driving that wagon that hit me. Seriously, my left eye has a twitch that I am certain is alcohol poisoning, and am thinking I have done permanent damage; Day 1 was worse - my entire head had a twitch. 3/ It will take me about 1,000 miles of running to get back to where I was before my pre-ten gallons of wine evening.

Moral of the story: Even though the evening was good fun, it simply isn't worth the time it takes to turn back into a functioning human again. Ten days of detox to get my body "cleansed" went straight out the window in a matter of hours. So, back to square one. I can't beat myself up for it, even Olympic athletes fall off the wagon every now and again -- my pipe dream is a lot different than Phelps's apparently. And it's not like I'm going to lose any Wheaties endorsements or anything. The only place my mug might end up is the back of a milk carton.

So, starting tomorrow, when hopefully my body is back to normal and I can see out of both eyes again, I will begin the process all over again and try to stay as far inside the wagon from this day forward as I possibly can. Wish me luck.