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A Sunday hangover is not unknown to me. It would be an easy deduction to say that I have spent more Sunday mornings recovering from hangovers than I have attending mass. If the truth be told, it would be easy to predict that I will spend more days recovering from hangovers than attending mass.

I feel no compunction in going to mass anymore, but I know that there will be a number of mornings when I will have no alternative but to stay in bed and sleep my way back to physical fitness. The previous night has to be worth the price of alcohol abuse.

I am paying the price today. Last night I gathered with Olivia, Dante  and his girlfriend. We met at Red Lobster, ate dinner, drank heartily and talked to our heart's content. Little compares to the warmth shared among family members. We broached the usual subjects from Trump to sports, from family gossip to possible trips in the future. The gals drank well, but they couldn't escape their responsibilities as designated drivers.

When I arrived home, I knew tomorrow was lost. I would not return to my regular schedule until Monday. Sleep would reign over my day, but because I appreciate the importance of time, I wasn't willing to forfeit the entire day to R&R.

For us who love football, there is an advantage of living on the West Coast rather than the East Coast. The latter games begin at 1 p.m. while the California coast games start at 10 a.m. In a half-conscious state during those heavy drinking youthful years, the early games would help me to return to the surface. Sometimes I wouldn't rise from bed until the second game kicked off at 1 p.m.

Football doesn't inspire me as it did in the past. I rise when I rise. One of the biggest advantages of retirement is not having to rise early in the morning. Nothing compares to that profound rest. I pulled myself out of bed at 11 a.m. I took my morning medicine, toasted cinnamon toast and accompanied my snack with freshly squeezed orange juice. I surfed the internet to check my sites. /AB-C penned a BISD endorsement with which I disagreed and I scribbled an response to my satisfaction.

Suffice to sat that my day wasn't a complete zero, I went to a local joint for chicken and beef ribs. Part of recuperating from a hangover is a good meal. The food was delicious, along with los frijoles a la charra. With a full stomach and an empty mind, I returned to my bedroom and slept for two hours. I returned to my day-to-day routine at 4:30 to watch the Cowboys squeeze out a 37-34 triumph. What can I do from saving this day from being a complete loss?

I'm finishing this article. That is an accomplishment. I need to eat something before I can count on the energy to finish with a flourish. Besides satisfying my mental requirements with written pieces, there is my physical priorities as I refuse to accept that I will be 70. A youthful blood courses through my system. I have fooled myself into thinking that I don't resemble an old man, supported by a cane as he plods his stooped-over body forward.

I am hoping that the green tea has energized me, the finished food will strengthen me and my own self-discipline will be the final difference. I'll hit the weights pushing my usual limits, take a long, hot shower and retire to my bedroom. I'm reading three or four books and I'll attempt to make a dent in them. 

If I'm incapable of achieving my objectives, I don't drink two days in a row. I'll kick up the pace tomorrow and make up for my deficiencies today. I might reprimand myself for wasting another 24 hours of my life, but I don't succumb to guilt. 

I feel no guilt about paying the price for the special moments with Olivia, Dante and his gal. I would reject my general attitude about abusing myself two nights in a row if they were in the mood, but they're not moving like freight trains anymore either. Sojourning from day to day in the lazy confines of a caboose is sufficient for them too. 

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