The woman at my local liquor store is a cocktail shaker shaped siren on an island of amber colored bottles, but these days I wisely ignore her glug-glug song.
I used to imbibe a variety of booze most nights of the week: a mellowing glass of Montenegro on Sunday evenings as I contemplated the week ahead; a glass of wine or two on Tuesday to keep my wheels oiled and my mind on track; a few commiserative ales after work on hump day with my colleagues while we criticized and disparaged our clients; followed by black spiced rum at end of day on Friday as I hoisted the Jolly Roger in preparation for the weekend. Saturday night, of course, belonged to mixed drinks in mixed company; then a mellowing glass of Montenegro on Sunday evenings as I contemplated the week ahead, and so on ...
Older now, more susceptible to hangovers and other post-drink impairments, I confine myself to mere edge-removing quantities of red wine or beer.
The problem is: as I age, the daily grind accumulates more and sharper edges: as one edge is obliterated with drink another immediately appears. Consequently, taking the edge off with a glass of cabernet franc becomes a kind of whack-a-mole played with countless refills and top offs.
Perhaps I should upgrade my per diem intake to a tankard of mead?