A few minutes ago, as I was dressing for dinner, I started to put away some of my warm weather clothes -- it's a nice, breezy 65 degrees in Manhattan right now. The sport coat I was wearing on The Night Of Infamy is one of my favorites, and something of a showpiece: robin's egg blue silk mohair, absolutely gorgeous. Now, the Day After, I had inspected it for any signs of wear or staining, given the state of my knuckles and shoes. I didn't see any, but then again, I was probably still semi-smashed when I looked.
I don't know how I missed it. Two large scuffs in the silk, one almost completely gone through. I have no idea if my tailor can re-weave it or not; and even if he can (which I'm inclined to doubt), I'm fairly certain the repair work will be very noticeable. Again, don't cry for me Argentina, there are worse problems than fucking up a Very Expensive One Of A Kind jacket, but still.
The episode plunged me into a complete state of self-loathing. I hate being an alcoholic. I hate what it does to my mind and body. I hate that it's caused me to ruin, lose or put in danger some truly beautiful things which I carefully saved, planned and cared for. My friends and family, God bless them, have stood by me. I'm apparently throwing my material goods out the window. In the past, if I lost or damaged things, it was just a matter of buying new and replacing them. Well, the gravy train ended with this recession, and there will be no more replacing going on for a while.
I keep apologizing for sounding like a prat, but dammit, this pisses me off. I'm not pissed about losing material things, per se; I'm pissed at myself for allowing this stupid disease to make me so careless about things I valued. If you are an art collector, imagine defacing a prized painting in a drunken stupor; if you're a musician, imagine destroying your instrument because of your drinking; if you have a prize-winning garden, imagine hacking your rose bushes to Mommie Dearest smithereens because you've been nipping at the gin. We all have "things" that we place great value on, and my personal obsession is clothes -- not just clothes for clothes' sake, but really special, fine pieces. And right now, I'm hating myself for getting this far into a disease that I thought I could control. Yes, I'm 15 days sober; no, I can't change the past.
But it still sucks.
5 comments:
Oh, honey, I hear ya.
I've been mucking through some wreckage myself these days. (Yeah, yeah, 5 years, I still got wreckage -- sue me.) But the amazing thing I'm finding is that thing they say sometimes -- we will neither regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it -- it's so f'n true.
Wreckage sucks. That's absolutely true. And toward the end there, mine was piling up. And it's taken a some time, and some tough feelings, to muck through all the wreckage I accumulated.
But the gift of sobriety is that you tend to make LESS wreckage...
Just think: all those treasures you STILL have? They're SAFE from all that insanity! And that's a good thing...
Yours in mourning for the robin's egg blue silk mohair...
Thanks for putting it into perspective, and talking me down off the ceiling... tonight was a night that I REALLY was jonesing for a martini to take the edge off, but then I kept thinking, Well, that's how that damn jacket got effed up in the first place...
And, as a famous Southern belle once said, Tomorrow is another day!
Ah yes, things to think about should you want to start drinking again.
I hurt for you, that jacket sounds so divine.
Oh dear, I remember you describing that jacket from your birthday celebration and it sounded so luscious. I have to go lie down now and mourn.
It's the carnage that makes one hate the war.
I used to have a (much less fabulous than yours) robin's egg raw silk jacket myself. I still resent it being lost.
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