Happy hour(s)

     "My head is like a football.  I think I'm gonna die..."
                                                                -The Rovers




         I was reminded, once again, that I don't bounce back like I did when I was 25.

         But  I bounce back better.


         SWMBO is visiting her parents on Long Island, this week, so Inky and Finn and I are left to our own devices.
     ( I'm not offering her absence as an excuse for what happened on Saturday, but simply an explanation for why she wasn't in the middle of the shenanigans.)

       It was a tough afternoon for docking,  so when I saw Wheelin' n Dealin'  approaching her slip on the third first attempt, I sauntered down to catch lines.  Wheelin'  is a newcomer to the Dock, so we did the Who-are-you-where-are-you-from-what-do-you-do human buttsniff.   Nice bunch, in their early 20s. Soon, James rolled up.  At this point, we decided to do some more rum research.  The crew of Wheelin' broke into a fresh flat of Bud Light.  In cans.
I repeat:
 Bud Light. In cans.

I raced to Whiskeyjack to grab some Brava.  In bottles.  I smirked at their choice of over-priced watered down mass-market training beer, they smirked at my choice of full-bodied cheap beer.  Young buck-old fart cultural differences. We argued about beer, docking, sailing versus powerboating. As the shadows lengthened we ordered pizza.  Another disagreement on where to order from, but  Harbour Pizza* won out because a) they will deliver to the dock, and none of us were driving anywhere and b) I had the number on speed dial on my phone.
A good time was had by all.

    There are rumours of photos of your scribe lying prone on the dock, unable to function. I cannot confirm or deny.
   There are some parts of the evening I don't remember.  I DO have to remember that I cannot drink like I am 25 anymore, and I shouldn't try to keep up with the 25 year olds...
Because I don't feel 25 the next morning.
I woke up with sweater-covered teeth, a brain that was threatening to break out of my skull, and mild embarrassment at being so immature.  After a quick glimpse in a mirror to make sure I don't have any new tattoos or piercings,  quick headcount to ensure that both dogs were present and a silent vow, again, to never do that again,  I climbed onto the dock and squinted into the sun.
     That hurt.
   Yep, I am not as young as I used to be... but I'm better.  I think.
   After a wake-up cup of coffee to clear the cobwebs, however, I did pull together a survivor's breakfast of "hair of the dog" cinnamon-rum french toast with homemade cinnamon bread and peameal bacon.  Served six. With two burners, two square feet of counter space and a two cubic ft. icebox.

      I couldn't do that when I was 25.

   

     *As seen on the Good Grub List.  Best pizza in town.  I don't care what James thinks.

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