I'm sitting in an airport bar on my way to see my Grandma today. I seem to do a lot of writing in airport bars, it's a stretch of free time that usually includes a beer or two to lubricate and facilitate a naturally verbose nature. I would say (and Wondie Full Boyfriend just concurred) that I am generally a pretty lovey drunk. I might be a stumbling, giggling, hot-mess of a lovey drunk but I usually find myself just loving EVERYONE. While this alone might not be embarrassing, the inability to stop telling people how very much I love them is rather embarrassing, which is why I rarely drink that much.
All this to explain to you why I am a more than moderately tipsy after two beers in the Buffalo airport. I've been in a funk about traveling for a couple of days and was hoping that a couple of beers to the tune of the vuvezuelas would help. In a completely predictable turn of events it hasn’t. This is why I don’t drink when I’m sad.
I think the funk is nerves about seeing my Grandma. Nervousness isn’t a good word though. Apprehension maybe? I know that she's going to be slower, more tired. I think that’s probably inevitable, or at the least expected when you are 92. I know that she cannot live forever and one of the things that my job has given me is the perspective of knowing that sometimes the end can be as much of a blessing as the beginning. It doesn’t make it less sad for those of us left living and so here I am, worrying.
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