The Paradox of Pizza

Best case scenario.

Yesterday I traveled to a rural town in Kentucky to attend a celebration of life ceremony.  Despite the somber purpose for the trip, I was thrilled about spending the night in a hotel solo.  Having a busy life and a husband and kids and whatnot, this is a rare occasion and I intended to take every advantage of the opportunity.  Hog the bed.  Order room service.  Watch something non-sports related on tv.  Read uninterrupted.  You get it.

As I settled into my room I realized that room service wasn’t an option.  This isn’t the Waldorf, y’all.  As luck would have it I found a pizza place that delivers and I placed my order and changed into my comfy sweats for a night of unadulterated solitude.  Heaven.

Not long there was a knock at my door.  When I opened the door there stood a big ole corn fed young buck named Justin.  He was over 6ft tall with curly blonde hair that spilled out from under his ball cap that was emblazoned with a slice of what appeared to be pepperoni pizza.  He presented the box to me with a big smile and exclaimed “here’s your piping hot pizza pie”!   I’d also ordered two 20 oz bottles of water and a Hershey’s creme pie for dessert (don’t you judge me) so I grabbed one of the bags as Justin set the pizza down on my hotel room dresser.  We chatted for a moment about the town and what I felt was their serious lack of streetlights.

“Seriously”, I said.  “This place is impossible to navigate!  Where are the street lights?  Where are the helmet laws?  You wouldn’t catch my old ass careening down these mountains on a motorcycle without one!  I hope these dumbasses are signing their organ donor cards”.   I realized as the words were coming out of my mouth that I sounded like a cantankerous old bag.  This kid was half my age and as I stood  there in my sweatpants, ponytail and glasses I’m sure I looked like some paranoid insane crone that he’d surely have avoided in the grocery store.

I was surprised when he started laughing and nodding his head.  He said I was “his kind of lady” and while flattered, I kind of died a little inside at “lady” but I digress.  He proceeded to tell me that he was off in an hour and he and a few friends were gonna grab some beers and whiskey and “drag the gut” and asked if I’d like to join them.  After clearing up the meaning of that expression, read: “cruise the local strip”, I politely declined but told him I appreciated the invite.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where I work – give me a call!”  I gave him a fat tip and told him to be safe.

End of story?  You’d think so, wouldn’t you?   Well, you’re probably not an alcoholic. As soon as the door shut I felt a rush of adrenaline hit me like the cold spray from a garden hose.   The logistics of my situation were indisputable.  I had already called and said goodnight to my husband.  I was 150 miles away from my home.  NO ONE would know if I went and had a few with the local yokels.   In fact, I could have an EPIC binge and no one would be the wiser.   JUST ONE NIGHT FOR GOD’S SAKE.  I’ve been sober TWO years now.  Surely I could go out for a couple, right?  Just let my hair down and have some laughs, that’s all.  I mean, I won’t even TOUCH the whiskey – beer only.  These are the things that raced through my head as I stared at the clock and did the math in my head of how long it would take for me to get dressed again and catch Justin before he left work.  I WANT TO DRAG THE GUT.

I wish I could say I’m kidding.  And I know what you’re thinking on top of the initial horror of my mental incapacity…I’m married.  HAPPILY.  What kind of gal would even CONSIDER getting into a vehicle of unknown 20-something dudes to get drunk and DRIVE around a strange town when she can’t find her way out of a paper bag with one end open?  WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?!?!

I could literally lose everything…my sobriety, my husband or even my life.  In no parallel universe is this a good idea.  And yet, there I was…heartbeat galloping in my chest at what I envisioned in my delusion as adventursome possibilities.  I’m rationalized that I’m a free spirit, after all.  I cannot be tamed!

In reality this entire dreamed up scenario lasted less than a minute, maybe two.  I settled in with my pizza and The Conjuring and had a perfectly lovely quiet evening.  I told myself that I “still got it” and then laughed at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser.  An almost 50 year old gal in sweats and a Dolly Parton t-shirt wearing nerdy glasses and a ponytail.  Notsomuch glamorous, no.  But sober and staying that way.

For tonight, anyway.




2 thoughts on “The Paradox of Pizza

  1. Jessica C. says:

    Confession: I would’ve wanted to drag the gut, too.

    Compliment: You have the best way with detail. But, you forgot to tell what slippers you’re wearing? ❤️

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