The Designated Drinker

I admit there was a time, before acid reflux tamed me, when I was known to lift one glass too many more frequently than was good for me. As the old saying goes, I knew my limit, I just passed out before I reached it. Actually that's not entirely true. There were only two occasions in my life when I drank so much I couldn't remember anything about it the next day. Unfortunately, I can only remember one of them. What saved my life more than once, I think, was that when inebriated I was not a reckless driver. Dangerous, perhaps, but not reckless. My tendency was to creep home, going so slowly as to become an obstacle for anyone driving a normal speed. It reminds me of the old joke about the guy pulled over by cops while he was headed home to Tarzana on the 101. "Do you know how fast you were going?" they demanded to know. "Um, seventy?" he answered tentatively, sure it had to have been much faster. "Seventy?" the cop said. "You were doing seven." Miraculously, I never did get stopped.