My talons remain embedded in the delusion that eventually someone is going to slip me the key that unlocks the door to the next level of sobriety. You know what I'm talking about -- the secret level where attendance is strictly limited to the hip, slick, and cool among us. In fact, attendance won't even be required for someone as hip, sick, and cool as I am. Admission to this bastion of advanced sobriety means I'll no longer have to work The Steps or go to meetings or be of service. All of the crap that sets me off and pushes my buttons and sticks in my craw will lose its power. I'll always be calm. God will be my best friend and constant companion. I'll love everyone. Everyone will be a good driver. Not as good as me, of course, but really pretty competent.
I'm a member of the class of '87. All this means is that I should know better when I act like an ass. It doesn't mean that I get to do anything different or new. It's the same stuff for all of us. It's the same program of recovery. We all have to do the same things. Nobody gets a pass or an easier work load.
At my weekly jail meeting we stress this to the guys -- my length of sobriety is meaningless unless I am doing the same things that they need to do. I just have more repetitions on the spiritual weight machine. It's the same weight machine. We all use the same weight machine. I'm just using more weights.
My physical appearance forbids me from ever using a weight machine analogy to make a point, ever again.
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