FEELING EMPTY? HOW TO FILL UP WITHOUT GUILT

Feeling empty sounds about right, but that doesn’t make it right. What to do?

No one needs some random Boomer explaining how they filled up ‘back in the day.’

Besides, was there ever a time like this where finger pointing got out of control with so many solutions for feeling empty?

And so much blame?

Shouldn’t an old white man be able to enjoy the glide path of life with comfy slippers and a nice glass of port wine by the fire?

Fire? Don’t say fire. We’re got too much fire. What about those slippers? Who has a pair of go-to slippers instead of flip flops?

And who the hell drinks port wine and asks for another? Sweet and thick and in need of something to make it drinkable, like ice cubes and seltzer water.

Port wine cooler anyone?

I was feeling empty, thought of which beer to guzzle, but read a passage from the South Beach Diet on booze. Number one to avoid? Beer. The favored drink? Red wine.

I’ve got red wine in the house, but it’s special red wine for special people at special times. I wasn’t a special person yesterday, and it wasn’t a special time.

It’s a common mistake for people like me who think every time is special and everyone is special as long as I’m at the head of the special line.

Special got started with these words: “This yard takes a lot of maintenance,” my wife said.

And she’s right. I looked where she was looking and she couldn’t have been more right. Overgrown shrubbery, patio full of dead leaf droppings, gravel landings growing green weeds.

Subtle call to action?

The choices were to ignore it and do something else, anything else since yard work is hard, or break out the gear and tear into the agreed upon problems.

Except we didn’t actually agree on anything.

More like seeing the problem and seeing the solution, but struggling on what to do? As an old white man with a clear conscious on what’s right, what’s wrong, and a wife who gets things done, I chose the path that makes me feel full.

I assessed my weapons: the couch looked good, but I had hours of daylight left. With blowers and vacuums and extension cords and saws and heavy duty clippers I dove into the underbrush that serves as landscaping.

After trimming back the overgrown parts, sawing the dead parts, and clipping the little parts that poked and scratched, I raked up the big stuff, vacuumed up the little stuff, and blew the remains out for another time.

Three hours later I’m inside uncorking a small bottle of port gifted to the house by someone who tried it and gave it away instead of pouring it down the toilet.

They tried it and gagged, and sent it away. To me. My wife is apparently a port expert. “You drink it from a thimble-sized glass, not a beer glass,” she said as I put ice in a cocktail glass emblazoned with a golden G, poured half the port with the other half seltzer.

It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t as bad as straight out of the bottle. I considered it rewarding, a rewarding red wine on the diet list that wasn’t a special red from a fancy winery.

We’re not talking a sixty dollar glass of wine.

As I settled into pretending I enjoyed it, and really it wasn’t that hard, the empty feeling receded, replaced by questions and accusations about alcohol. Call it a discussion.

“You’ve got a drinking problem.”

“No, I’m drinking this just fine, thank you very much.”

“That’s not how you drink port wine.”

“I’ll help out. This is how I drink port wine, not how you drink port wine, which you never do because red wine gives you a headache. So I’ll just knock off this half a small bottle and save it from rotting in the cupboard. You’re welcome.”

“You drink every night.”

“I try, but I miss a few. Like last night.”

“That’s what alcoholics say.”

“I wouldn’t know, but do they also accuse others of drinking their booze because they can’t remember tanking it down all by themselves? That sounds like a problem.”

“You need help.”

“Like a bottle of expensive red wine kind of help? No thanks, I’m sticking to port. I’m a port man now.”

“Is this going to be another night of stumbling and mumbling?”

“You’re thinking of someone else. I don’t stumble and mumble. I go to bed. Shall we review?”

“No.”

“I agree, let’s review.”

“Drunks come in all shapes and sizes. And ages. The drunks I’ve known keep bottles, plural bottles, of vodka in their freezer. Drunks I’ve know have had legal and emotional problems. And they don’t have a stop button.”

“You’re just rationalizing and making excuses.”

“Have you known career drunks? They usually clear through all available booze in the house for the hardcore. They search it out and glug it down for that empty feeling.”

“That’s extreme.”

“But channeling Carrie Nation and Mother Theresa at the same time isn’t?”

“You are drinking port wine coolers. That’s extreme.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you my extreme evening plans. After crushing the underbrush . . .”

“It’s called landscaping.”

“. . . I’m taking a shower, fixing something to eat, and finishing this amazing port cooler. Then, like any decent husband, I’ll ask my wife if there’s anything she’d like to do, talk about, or watch together. With the husband bases covered I’ll watch a little WWII In Color, read a couple of chapters, and make wild passionate love.”

“That’s the plan?”

“I’m making a list, checking it twice.”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“Are you feeling naughty or nice? Now that’s funny.”

“Marginally funny.”

“Is that your final answer?”