Twenty Five

I celebrated 25 years clean and sober this week.  

"25 continuous years?" some smart ass asked immediately.  Oh.  I didn't realize it had to be continuous.  That seems unreasonable, a real hardship.

My Old City sponsor sent me an anniversary coin and a card.  There was a short note of congratulations in the card, sort of: "26 is the hardest year."  He's mostly joking but there's a suggestion there that I always make sure I'm working on my recovery.  A drink is a drink whether I have 25 days or 25 years.  My habits are better now but I'm one drink away from a whole lotta pain.

Have you ever seen those slow-motion videos of a race car crashing, the one where the car flips over and over and over, parts flying off, dirt spraying all over the place, and still it keeps rolling?  You can't believe how many times the thing flips; you're sure that it's done flipping and it goes over a few more times.  That was me coming into The Program.  I was inside that car.  It wasn't pleasant being inside that car.  I don't want to have that happen again.  I'm too old to survive a wreck like that.

I announced my anniversary at my home group.  A friend approached me after the meeting.  Another smart ass so I knew I had to step down from my high pedestal to a slightly lower, mid-range pedestal. I didn't want to plant my feet firmly on the ground.  I thought a little pedestal work was in order.

"So," he said.  "Have you given any thought yet to working The Steps?"

"No," I replied.  "I've heard that's overrated."

"Just checking," he said.

A guy I sponsor came over, too.  I thought that finally, maybe, I had a shot at getting my ass kissed.

"Goddamn you're old," he said.

These are my friends.