Lotophaging

A cake is sliding layer by layer off the table as a I tap. Two spindly sisters and one gangly activist are splayed unconsciously across a mound of discarded food stuffs and spent party poppers, snoring somehow. I wait for the kettle. This is going to be quite the cleanup. Not only does the host have to contend with an array of spilt food and drink, but the vomited and dribbled product of the same, which abounds gracelessly around fallen bodies. In addition to this, "Viva la revolucion!" has been crudely sprayed on nearly every visible surface, betraying Ben's presence, not to mention the room's once-loyal stylist. Most of all, though, there's the smell. A mixture of bad weed (thanks, Harry), bad alcohol (thanks, Harry) and suffocated armpits. That boy's one step away from a twelve-step.

Mingling for three weeks has more than taken its toll; I feel like sawdust. But I've fared far better than most, possibly even all. I'm awake, for starters, and quite close to sobriety. And I'm already reflecting. Somewhere along the line our common cause was blurred by beer, song and myriad other sybaritic pursuits, and I fear the extended recovery period will prove a thorn. Ben and that tall Portuguese woman (great slacks) will each need at least a week's worth of showering, I'd wager, and Johnny The Stirrer (a recent and inevitable christening) will be out of action till he finds all his fingers. But while it's a less than ideal opening*, its symbolic function, independent, as it is, from the actual goings on of the event, will be strong enough to mark this admitted indulgence as something of a success. That's a hard thing to say with the smell of purged stomachs and badly mixed liquor, but I'm optimistic. Whatever the outcome, I think we'll each emerge slightly different(ly). It certainly put whatever remained of my abstinence to the test. And I'll cease to look at Harry as a benign innocent. Still didn't get me to dance, though.

There's something wonderfully superior about surviving this, particularly with a pot of tea to rest on. If I wasn't so sober I might even murmur "spiritual". Potential hasn't been squandered, merely delayed. And that's nice. After this I'll sit outside with the rest of my tea and wait for the morning to start looking like it's supposed to.

*This will not be made a joke of.