Daiquiri

Daiquiri: (n) a cocktail of rum, lemon or lime juice, and sugar,

It should be our greatest concern.

Of all our fears, apprehensions and iniquities that may abound within our human heart, we should certainly avoid being phony.

You can get by with twice the sin normally tolerated if you’re willing to admit your oddity instead of trying to argue it in the form of a question.

In other words:

“Are you asking me if I did this?”

“Don’t you believe me when I say I didn’t?”

“You know me better than this, don’t you?”

I went through a stage in my life when I was convinced that I lacked cool, sophistication and originality because I didn’t drink alcohol. When I was a very young boy, I battled bronchitis and was given many concoctions to clear my tubes so I could breathe.

All of these tasted like the alcoholic beverages that have ever been set before me.

I don’t drink alcohol—because it makes me feel like I’m sick. It tastes bad and I just don’t care for it.

But because I felt under pressure, I tried drinking wine with dinner, and when I went out with friends, would order a drink.

Nothing strong. Nothing that came out of a bottle of its own.

No, I nursed along mixed drinks.

And a daiquiri was one I found I could tolerate—as long as it had a sweet, fruit flavor.

I never finished one. I left that to my wife or another nearby friend.

But the ice was kind of nice—similar to a Slushee. Yes, a bitter Slushee with a strong after-kick.

I felt stupid about the pretense.

Finally, one night I ordered a daiquiri, and someone laughed at me, saying it was a “girly drink.”

It landed in my brain with a thud. I was trying to do this drinking to make myself seem relevant and manly but failing miserably because I wasn’t prepared to take in the hard stuff. (Captain Daniels, the scotch.)

That night, in that moment, I turned to those at the table—at least a dozen of my closest—and said, “Behold, a goddamn phony. I despise alcohol. I have no intention of drinking it again. You may feel free to pursue it without my condemnation, but I will no longer act out the part of an adult by having a drink in my hand.”

I was surprised to discover that there were three people at the table who were drinking because they saw me do it—and even though they hated it, they thought it was important to do because of my imbibing.

This was my last daiquiri.

I have not missed it.

And I must warn you that sometimes your footprint is what the person behind you is using to try to walk straight.

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