The knots returned last night and I tried several remedies, none of which provided much relief.
Unwillingly I uncorked a bottle of red, pouring just enough to sip and confirm my reservations. Two days prior I had broken my first New Year’s resolution when I half-heartedly drank a bottle of beer that I did not enjoy as much as I used to.
I had had this overblown fantasy that I was not going to drink or smoke for all of 2005, but by day two I had already failed to achieve this modest goal. Being abstinent of such vices has not really been much of a task in the past, but lately because of the extra stress I have experienced for the last month and not having much recourse otherwise, I have drunk more than my usual share without savoring my drinks as much as I should.
Nonetheless, with this second taste test, I confirmed my current distaste for alcohol and figured that the beginning of my ride on the bandwagon had merely been postponed. For I knew that the bottle that I had just opened would certainly never be touched again. It was a cheap merlot that I had purchased from Whole Foods, which was why I was so surprised that they would be bold enough to place their brand name on something so unpalatable. It tasted like a bad Chianti, worse then the large bottles of Sangre de Toro and French Bordeaux my friends and I would revel with in grad school.
After the vinegar-disguised-as-wine did not work I took a few extra minutes in the shower and let the hot water soothe my shoulders. After I dried off I massaged vapor muscle rub into them and lie on the floor stretching, after which I lied still on the bed for a few more minutes.
I mulled over the sources of this wretched anxiety and determined that maybe it would be better not to apply to business school after all, that this was a dumb idea and I was not cut out for it.
Cradling that consoling thought, I allowed this desperately wrought escape clause to lull me to sleep.
When I woke this morning I felt somewhat better, but gradually the tension arose again as I became conscious of the futility of giving up so easily, because I thought it would be much worse in the long run if I did not pursue this pragmatic endeavor. For if I did not return to school as planned, I would probably otherwise end up a corporate putz, whittling his time away in a corner of the office.
As a diversion to this internal debate I decided to begin reading Alice Seibold’s The Lovely Bones. I figured I needed something a lot less scholarly, something that might keep my mind off my pedantic aspirations for a moment.
It actually worked—for a moment.
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