Life begins at forty. Well, yes. If you think of "life" as labouring to reproduce the system. Yes, it kinda sucks. I suppose I've had it good for the past twelve years, where my job primarily consists of teaching, writing, doing research. Now I spend two hours ploughing through my email and another hour through my in-tray, yet another on the phone, none of which are teaching or research related. On average I spend six hours per week in meetings where I sit and listen to da-man-wida-head talk. Yet another hour or so every day planning more meetings.

So, life begins.

***

I have this irrational fear that I might be drinking too much. It is irrational, because I know I don't drink too much at all. Okay that depends on who I'm comparing myself with. I'd say I don't drink any more than I did twenty years ago (haha), and my husband constantly reassures me that I have to be nuts to think that I drink too much. Anyhow, I am concerned about the size and texture of my one and only darling liver, so for the past couple of years - God, has it really been that long? - I've been trying to not drink very night.

And I have been methodical about it. I kept a journal. Over the past 100 weeks, I only managed 2 weeks where I drank 5-6 instead of 7 nights a week.

On Sunday, I spent the whole afternoon cooking and drank a whole bottle of Syrah in the process. WhenI woke up Monday morning, I felt so very guilty, thinking that I have mistreated my poor darling liver once again! I'm such a bastard. So last night I administered punishment to myself by drinking nothing but green tea and went for a run as well.

Strangely enough, this morning I didn't feel any better. In fact, I felt worse than I normally do.