I had a Margarita Melt Down, yesterday. Actually, the "melt down" came first, and then the margarita, and then another, and then another. And then a big headache, and the questions, "Why did I just drink three margaritas?" and "Am I, finally, living up to my genetic heritage and becoming an alcoholic?"

Alcoholism runs in my family, and, so, except for that blur also known as my freshman year in college, I always worry about my drinking when I suck down a margarita like Gatorade.

For the most part, the gene has remained dormant, as alcohol rarely appeals to me. I've had an unopened bottle of Hornitos in my cupboard for two years, as well as a bottle of rum and triple sec, a six pack of Stella (no "conscious" pun intended), and a bottle of good champagne that I've had for over a year (I'm still waiting for a reason to open it...maybe becoming an alcoholic is a good reason). On many, many nights, I have purchased a bottle of beer or ordered a glass of wine and didn't finish it because, it just didn't taste or feel good. Even if I wish it did.

However, once in a blue menses, when life feels particularly overwhelming, and I start to panic that I'll never have a grown-up relationship or another job, for that matter, alcohol tastes really, really good. Or, maybe, just tequila tastes good. Actually, it doesn't just taste good, it feels really fucking awesome, and provides a necessary paradigm shift. All is well. I'm still alive. The melting stops, and starts to harden like candle wax, and then I have to scrape myself off the bar stool.

So far, I'm a sporadic alcoholic. In fact, if you're going to be an alcoholic, I would say being a part-time alcoholic is the best kind. But truth be told, I'd rather not have the melt downs, or the menses...but I think that's just a part of being alive.

Just for today, I can write about my part-time alcoholism.