Working My Way to Rehab One Sip at a Time

I have drank alcohol to excess for as long as I can remember. My parents, God Bless their souls, are not strangers to late night slurred phone calls. My first year of college these calls were mainly that I wanted to come home or had a fight with my girlfriend. My second first year of college in Lubbock, TX, these calls mostly centered around the fact that you had to drive outside of town to buy alcohol. Could they believe that? Now I no longer dial direct but rather don't know when it is a bad time to return their call. Case in point: It is not a good idea to call your mother back after three bring you to your knees margaritas and two beers. My saving grace is that I have surrounded myself with functioning alcoholics much like myself. On occassion their antics have made me feel like a saint.

For instance, when I see my friend strip at a restaurant in front of total strangers after forcing them to play the dating game, it makes the time I woke up face down in a friend's living room with my face firmly planted in a cowboy boot seem like an innocent mistake. Anyone could have fallen off the couch in their sleep.

Is it no wonder I read Augusten Burrough's memoir Dry with such rapt attention? It was like looking into a crystal ball into my past or future. At this point I just don't know which it is; did I dodge the rehab bullet or do I merely live in the crosshairs.