Strangely Enough
When I was 11, I made a promise to a childhood friend that I wouldn’t take up alcohol. His father was a decent family man until he lost his job and started drinking to quell his demons. Not too long later, he became physically abusive towards his wife and children. Scott blamed the alcohol for destroying his father and tearing his family apart.
Every once in a while, my friends will try to coerce me to have a sip of sake or calimocho, but it never goes much beyond that. I don’t fear that I’ll become an alcoholic from enjoying a glass of wine every now and then. Neither do I really think myself bound to a decade-old pact I made with someone with whom I’ve long lost touch. To be honest, I’m not sure why it is that I don’t drink.
On my way back home from having my fingerprints taken for my UK visa this morning, I started thinking about my “drinking problem” for some reason. And it struck me that these acts of self-repression might stem from a deep-seated desire to exact control over the instability that has pervaded my life to this point — a way of setting up arbitrary rules as if to tell myself that not everything is chaotic. But life is changing so very quickly. And, for whatever reason, I’m starting to feel that I should change as well.
The High Line, an elevated park built on old railroad tracks
