I read a study recently that examined grad student exam performance and alcohol consumption. The authors found that students who consumed more than 30 alcoholic beverages per week significantly outperformed their light-drinking and abstaining peers. The study didn’t offer many ideas as to why this was the case. I’m sure that was a fun research proposal to write. “So let’s take a semester, get drunk most nights, and then compare test scores.” Sounds reasonable.
Welcome to the official unofficial study on how alcohol consumption affects writing. In the interest of full disclosure of research methods, I am slightly drunk. It’s currently 2:21 in the morning and the dog and I are comfortably plopped on the couch. I just returned home from an “Ugly Sweater” open bar event sponsored by my lovely grad school classmates. We just completed our first Anatomy exam a few hours earlier and everyone was in the mood to blow off steam. Best $12 I’ve spent in a while.
A few minutes ago I realized that with all of the exam prep, I forgot to write a blog post for this week. And thus, here we are. So if this auto-publishes tomorrow as some stream-of-consciousness piece of shit, let’s blame it on cheap vodka. Seriously, I don’t think the label was even in English.
As a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up. My grandmother, in her infinite wisdom equally matched with her age, always responded, “Michael, don’t wish your life away. Some day you will be old and wonder where time went.” I quickly dismissed her. “You just say that because you’re old, Mommom.” I had all the answers.
At seven-years-old, a single year seems like an eternity. The summer felt as though it would never end, and when the weather finally turned colder, the stretch from Halloween until Christmas moved at a handicapped snail’s pace. Now the pages of the calendar turn like a book in the breeze. My grandmother has been gone for nearly a decade, and yet, many of these memories truly feel like yesterday.
Now as many of my friends and colleagues are whining about the toll of aging on their bodies and minds alike, I don’t feel all that much different. Aside from the newly experienced phenomenon of the two-day hangover, I physically feel the same at 30 as I did when I was in high school. (Ironically, sixteen years later I’m still in school living on a student budget.) Perhaps I’m just lucky or perhaps achy joints, (additional) weight gain, and hair loss are lurking around the corner. For now, I hope to continue to dodge the Age Fairy. I hear she’s a bitch.
Maybe it’s the warmth of the season, or the warmth of the vodka, but as our Christmas tree lights cast a glow on various pictures in the living room, I have to admit that as I’ve gotten older, I am a bit more conscious of the importance of a few core values. I try to spend more time with family and friends and expend less effort worrying about problems, financial stress, and those annoyances outside of my control.
When I was in college, my aunt Gerri was suffering through a battle with ovarian cancer. Most of our extended family had come to visit and after a meal together, she said a few words. She told us to look around the room and remember the faces of those present, and to cherish the time we spent together because as time goes on, new faces will appear and familiar faces will begin to disappear. Her face disappeared the following year. Her advice did not.
It is easy to be consumed by and get lost in the bullshit of everyday life. Complaints run rampant, stresses mount, and even the simplest problems can seem insurmountable at times. I’m guilty of these gripes on a daily basis. But every once in a while it is good to sit back and take stock in what you really have in life. You might be surprised how quickly what is important comes into clear focus.
Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, happy holidays, or whatever occasion it is you celebrate. I hope you get a chance to relax, spend time with family and friends, and find happiness in your day-to-day. And if you get in to the eggnog or holiday cheer, plan accordingly. I hear hangovers when you’re old are awful. In fact, I’ll let you know tomorrow.
