Without being especially conscious of it, I'd be thinking about what there was to drink, how I would make sure there was enough to drink if there wasn't enough, reading special offers from wine delivery companies, then, of course, the glorious moment when drinking could begin, and pretty much nothing happened after that. Nothing meaningful anyway.
It wasn't always like that. I know that back a few years I was actually doing things after dinner. Work, reading, crafty crap. Helping with homework. Making calls with friends.
But that slipped away and more recently it's been a zoned-out, numbed up, slobby collapse on the lounge with tv and social media and not much else.
And that evening slothfulness extended into the afternoon, and the day, and less and less got done.
I had all sorts of excuses for it - depression, anxiety, worthlessness. And as I got fatter and fatter it was physically uncomfortable to be more active (totally understand how people end up gigantic now, because the fatter you are, the less you want to move, and the more fat you become).
But really was it depression that made my drinking worse or - shock horror - actually my drinking that contributed to that vile depression and off-the-charts anxiety?
Yep. Box number two looks like the winner to me too.
I slow roasted pork that I'd marinated overnight; made chicken stock from the huge bird I roasted and served last night; baked a flourless chocolate-beetroot cake; cleaned up after all of it; felt more like a younger version of me.
Still not drinking. Still pretty much ok with it. Still wondering if this is just too easy for now?