Here I am in St. Augustine, cursed land of soul-crushing agony.
Okay, so it’s not the pit of hell or anywhere close to that. I’m guilty of hyperbole, as usual, though I’ll admit to a certain unease being here with my family, in-laws, sister-in-law and her kids. I haven’t been on a vacation sober before. My nerves are bit frayed.
I know nothing awful will happen over the next few days. I don’t like the beach, but I’ll survive it. I’m not exactly looking forward to looking at alligators for two hours. I’m really not looking forward to dinner without the promise of a drink or ten before and after.
I’m going to my first out-of-town AA meeting tonight, so that’ll be good. I know I’m not going to drink…but I do wish I felt a little better.
Easy does it, as they say. Self-care is important, which is why I’m the air-conditioned cabin, listening to music and typing this while the others are at the pool.
That’s all from the “oldest continuously inhabited European established settlement in the Continental United States” (thanks, Wikipedia).