I'm back - limping, but back. There is no such thing as "recovery time" at the age of 53. It is all just lifetime injuries and sustained damage. I'd love to just tally it to lack of sleep, but there is the tremendous scent of subtext in that. I just can't conduct myself as if I'm 47 any more.
I've never wanted to go back to the gym so badly in my life. The best thing to come out of all of this is my as yet unconfirmed belief that I must have lost some weight, though it does seem possible that my caloric intake actually increased over the last week, from alcohol alone. When I say alone, I mean it.
I wasn't drinking like a fish, I was breathing like one.
At some point I was trying to figure out a way to send everybody in my address book a lone question mark: ?. I believe that I was naughtily trying to dig up some mystery.
Still, I kept my word, the last drink I had was in Vegas before I left for the airport. Now, I get back on the rocky road of abstinence from alcohol, moderation in diet, and exercise of course. The great reminders of damage done.
I will write more as the grip of it slowly releases me, as the angels return from Holland.