I love beer.
I mean it. I love beer.
I mean. . . .I. Love. Beer.
I love the way it looks, the way it smells, the way it sounds pouring out into a glass. Everything. All beer. Every beer. I don’t think there’s a beer I’ve ever tried that I actually disliked. Even cheap beer. I would wax poetic about the wonders of beer, but mere words could not begin to describe the way I feel about beer. Imagine a typical male’s reaction to coming home, opening his garage door, and seeing, say, Kate Beckinsale draped seductively across the hood of a mint condition 1967 Jaguar XKE whispering “We’re both all yours”. That’s the way I feel about beer.
And just ask the ArchaeoWife, I don’t use the L-word lightly. Or often.
Is it genetic? I’m half German and I grew up in Wisconsin, so maybe it’s in my very DNA. But whatever, I adore it. Sweet amber nectar of the gods. I could live on beer. I’d bathe in it, but that would be wasting beer. It makes, in a way, life worth living. Pale golden elixir of life, it is.
And, of course, I can’t drink it. Much. Anymore. Just goes to show just how monumentally irritating Fate can be.
No, I’m not a recovering alcoholic, although some of the amounts that I put away in college might make a good boozer blush. Sometimes I wonder how I ever made it out of undergrad school. Really, my lifestyle was somewhat akin to Animal House, except that we drank more. Mostly beer. For me, it was like soda pop with a kick, but about ten times better. Scratch that, a hundred times better.
No, I just can’t drink the stuff anymore without it causing a rather non-trivial amount of physical distress. My metabolism went whacko about 20 years ago and I started not being able to sleep at night. I tried EVERYTHING. Ended up that the only thing that worked was giving up alkyhol entirely. Really, not even a little bit on the weekend. That and around the same time I had started getting more serious about working out — hmmmmm, I hope there’s not a connection there — and for whatever reason my stomach started rebelling after only one or two beers. Or one or two anything with alcohol in it. Was it age? Mileage? My body finally deciding it had enough of being an alcohol processing factory? Whatever it was, I quit completely for several years. Slept better, worked out better, etc. Had more problems sleeping around the early 2000s and I had to severely restrict my caffeine intake, too; yes, two of the five major food groups* were now nearly off my plate. Sucks.
I’ve tried a few times to get back into the swing of things, thinking maybe I’d grown out of it or had enough time off that I could get back into at least a semi-regular quaffing of brewski. But no, it always makes me feel terrible, can’t sleep, and I end up swearing it off again. And this after like 1.5 beers on a Friday afternoon!
So these days I content myself with the occasional few swigs when I’m cooking with it. Doesn’t matter what sort it is, it’s like a little guzzle of pure heaven to me. I’ve tried the non-alky sorts, but they’re just not the same. There is no substitute for a good beer.
I sometimes contemplate going back to Wisconsin once a year and spending one afternoon and evening just swilling beer in a nice tavern somewhere, getting good and ripped, and then just suffering the consequences as a reminder of why I gave it up. Trouble is, I still can’t get two drinks down my gullet without feeling a bit sick. That which I most adore now makes me feel the worst.
Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.
* Salt, fat, sugar, caffeine, and alcohol.