I have a problem with me time. It’s interfering with my sleep, not a good pattern to start. Like my father before me, I come home from work later than I want, and yearn for a cocktail as reward for a hard days work. Hey, I deserve it, don’t I? Sure I do.
My drink is not his. His was a Godfather, or at least for the time when this image is seared into my memory of him. He also drank Rusty Nails, and I seem to remember Manhattans, too. We always had Amaretto, Drambuie and Sweet Vermouth. I never saw Sweet Vermouth in any of my friends parents liquor cabinets.
But those are drinks from another age, not my drinks at all.
Instead I drink what my grandfather did, whiskey and soda.
At the end of a long day, later than is good for me, because I should be in bed. I need to be up in the morning. I need my 8 hours. I’m not the whipper snapper I used to be, and I know it. But I want my me time, granddad drink and all, reading Billy Collins poetry and staying up too late.
So that’s what I’m doing.