Just had to run down the basement stairs again to get some ice for my bourbon – which, of course, means I had to come back up them, with Dante the Hound from Hell racing me in both directions, threatening to spill my drink and blow out my ACL. And therein lays the disease.
See, the main fridge – the one in the kitchen that spits out uniform crescent shaped ice along with the nice splash of cold water I like to top off my bath-time libation, all of it without even opening the door – that fridge is on the fritz. I got no problem with take out, or actual eat out, and I’m not so picky that a few days of Progresso soup is going to put me off my feed in any major way, but, dammit, I do like a bourdon while I bathe. Like Winston Churchill who, when questioned about his preference for baths over showers, proclaimed “Why do anything standing up that you can do sitting down,” I prefer to mix relaxation with hygiene – and I like a little bourbon with both. Some Jack Daniels, a good book and a long soak – that backs my demons far enough into the corner that I can drift off into the arms of Morpheus without anything gaining on me.
And having to trek down to the basement for the ice is starting to piss me off.
Now the basement fridge is fine, if pedestrian. Just the basic plain white, freezer-on-top, no-frills icebox that served the family well enough the first couple decades of married life. A few years back, our economic fortunes improved with an upgrade in my employment, and we moved into the new joint that had the fancy-assed black fridge with all the trimmin’s in the kitchen, so we shunted the old one downstairs where it stores the beer and warehouses forgotten leftovers until they are moldy enough to throw away. Knowing I had a few baths to get through before the kitchen fridge would be back on line, I stocked a bag of ice for bourbon time.
And now I’m whining about having to walk down 12 entire stairs to get it. Whining from my comfy leather chair in my nice office. Whining on my newish laptop with the high-speed wireless internet connection.
Christ. What would Whitman say? I’ve become the elder race halted, wearied beyond the seas. I need a good swift kick in the ass.