Undead Llama

It’s 5:30 in the morning. Like an automaton, I start the day. I quietly flop out of bed, pull on my work-out clothes, tip-toe out of the bedroom, and carefully close the door behind me – all to avoid waking my wife. In the living room, I turn on the lamp, normally a trivially mundane act. Today, it evokes an ear-splitting and alarming shriek from my wife. Today, she was sleeping on the couch right under the lamp. Today, turning on the lamp woke her – abruptly.

She slept on the couch all night. She said I “reeked” of alcohol. Months ago she sat next to a large man on a plane whose aroma spoke of drunken shenanigans. She said I smelled like that guy. She complained about my stench before bed. But just after I dozed off, the stench was too much for her, so she fled to the olfactory safety of the couch.

I reminded her that this was all her. Her accusation that I smelled like a drunken fat guy had no basis, seeing that for all practical purposes I am a teetotaler.

Not a true teetotaler, mind you. Normal people may believe me to be a teetotaler. Teetotalers might refer to me as a liar. But I get more oil changes than I do drinks in a year. The whole concept never really appealed to me. I attribute it to some bad experiences when I was a kid. Sparse drinking does lead to some interesting stories.

On my first business trip, some of my coworkers had a night out at a restaurant and everyone had a drink but me. Initially I did not order a drink, but something made me want to fit in this time. I spontaneously decided to get something at the bar on the way back from the bathroom. “Give me the girliest drink you’ve got,” I demanded of the bald bartender. His expression indicated he did not expect those words to come out of my mouth. But, he offered up a huge strawberry daiquiri complete with a crazy straw and fruit salad on the rim. It was a big hit with my coworkers.

A few years ago, on New Year’s Eve, a friend I have known for twelve years was mixing margaritas at my place. He offered me one, but was surprised when I said yes. Apparently, he had never seen me drink. And, I think that was the last drink I had.

It seems to rub off on all of those around me as well. This year for New Year’s Eve, I couldn’t convince a house full of people to have the champagne. Instead, everyone drank sparkling grape juice. Mine smelled like feet, but tasted fine.

I do have my drink. As previously alluded to, I drink Coke. Even for breakfast. I call it corn juice.

This is almost my exact drinking history for the last five years – a handful of drinks and a flood of corn juice. So, as you can see, my wife accusing me of smelling like a drunk fat guy is rather absurd.

I did apologize to my wife, who went back to the bedroom and took her super-human sense of smell with her. We never did find the cause of my noxious bouquet.