Friends, family, and strangers constantly say that I don’t look my age. I’ve stopped looking in the mirror in favor of regarding my shadow against a wall, so the innate narcissistic nature guillibly believes the complements and lies. This weekend was my birthday. One short of the next big one. Andrea from across the aisle in the diamond exchange said that I was a monument to perpetual youth. My wife Mam professed that I was forever young. Emails and phone calls from across the globe mirrored this sentiment. Emboldened I went out Friday night with no good intentions.

Drink drink drink.

No women.

Drink drink drink.

Watching the Stanley Cup at Mullanes on Lafayette. Beer chasers afterwards at Franks Lounge. A glass of wine with my landlord AP to finish the night and then the next day more of the same.

Drink drink drink.

I woke Sunday morning feeling like five pounds of cow paddy in a one pound bag.

As a youth I could have drank a glass of water and been ready for some more action.

At 59 I was destined for an early grave. I called my doctor in Staten Island. Nick and I have been friends since European History 101 at BC.

1970.

“What can I do to stop this pain?” We had hitchhiked across America in 1973.

“Sleep, water, sleep, water, and more sleep.” Nick was a good doctor. He didn’t give me any pills. My only Rx was sleep and water.

“Anything else?” That recipe might have worked in my early 50s, but I was feeling mighty twattered by my overstepping the boundaries of moderation.

“A good hot bath with a big book. That way when you fall asleep the book will drop in the water and you won’t drown.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Nick didn’t charge me for any of consultation. We were good friends. For over 40 years and both of us expect to make 70.

“More of the same.”