My writing seems on hold for the week as my girlfriend and I buy a house. We’re in the phase directly following the homeowners’ accepting our offer, so we don’t yet know if the offer’s any good. If the bank appraises lower than our bid, what do we do? We might lose it. My girlfriend, typically inured against misfortune, says she’s not attached, but I think otherwise. We’ve already planned what to place in what rooms, what furniture may be in our near future. And we look at pictures of the online listing when we’ve had a drink or more. I know I’m attached.
My drinking has, as usual, increased during this period. I must drink to still the whir of hopes and fantasies swirling in my gut. I was told this getting into drinking, that I’d need it, eventually, if I abused the substance too long. I have abused it too long. It’s not even fun, this manner of drinking, dumping expensive IPAs into an enlarging paunch, but it’s less fun staying sober.
I quit my workshop. My writing workshop. Moving to Tacoma means I’d have to dedicate even more time getting there. I regret quitting, but only a little. Talk at the group began that inevitable decline into “have you been writing lately?” Or the lengthier and poorly phrased “what have you done to find time to write lately?” That’s not my problem, finding time. I don’t need convincing, I need to get better. Regardless, I’ll miss them. Seven writers in my shoes, trying to begin or complete their next project, or just a project. We were to go out for beers at the next workshop, that’s what I most regret, missing beers.
We meet our real estate agent’s home inspector at our home today. Needs to be a qualifier like “maybe” or “possible” in that sentence, preceding “home,” but I’ll keep it out for now. I like the look of “our home.” I hope the inspector tells us there’s not much wrong with the place, so we can be confident the bank’s appraisal will go well. Our agent says she’ll be sure to walk through with the appraiser, to make sure it comes in right. I like that, as if right is something you can alter by force of will, that what you perceive to be in your favor is more right that what’s true.
After the inspection my girlfriend and I are sure to finish our workdays with laptops open at a brewery. It’s the modern workplace gone amok. I tell myself this addiction is a passing phase, that I can get by without alcohol and will someday, without my even trying. And I’d like for a specialist—a doctor, therapist, anyone—to inspect me and conclude that assumption’s correct. I’d buy her a beer if she did.