18. Iff’d  Up

“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I love my parents, but they’re idiots,” the blond girl said.  “They named me Glinda Belle.  Insisted on calling me Glinny.  No wonder I became a raging alcoholic.”

“What name do you go by?” I asked. 

“In school they called me Mick, short for Michelob. I wore that name like a badge of honor. I still go by Mick, not sure I like it anymore.”  She paused, looked around, shuffled her feet, and stuck her hands in her pocket.  “What if I become a binge drinker like Phil?  What if I can go a while without getting drunk, but always get toasted eventually?  What if, after my baby’s born, a judge takes away my rights? What if I end up like Sam with no visitation?”  She said she’d be f’d then, only she didn’t say ‘f’d’.

“You’ll be iff’d if you keep worrying about what might be.  Right now you and your baby are sober. You’re getting the care you need.  Don’t torture yourself with ifs, they ruin the moment. Ifs become might-as-wells and might-as-wells become relapses. That’d be truly iff’d up.”

Today I won’t if up the moment.

Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose

Other publications available at: http://www.amazon.com/Ken-Montrose/e/B001K8MG0S

 (Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)