I went to a neighborhood street festival this weekend. I love neighborhood street festivals. I used to love them more, because they are a prime midday outdoor drinking opportunity.

When I arrived with a friend, the festival was in full swing. It was smoky from the food vendors and packed with people. My friend suggested we duck into a bar and sit for a while. The bar he chose turned out to have a rooftop deck. It was a happy surprise. The rooftop was a perfect place to people-watch without the smoke and crowds. My friend got a fancy Belgian beer and I got a Diet Coke. We settled in and the sun was shining. It was pleasant.

It was pleasant, but I realized right away that had I been drinking it would have been fucking awesome. It would have been one of those times when the stars and ducks and everything line up to make a perfect day. Had I been drinking, the surprise rooftop deck would have seemed an unbelievable gift. I would have felt mad love for my beautiful friend and all my beautiful friends everywhere. I would have felt that deep, deep contentment -- a chasm of contentment widening to engulf my entire life.

Instead, it was pleasant.

While I was drinking, I would occasionally be forced by a hideous hangover or a particularly painful incident to reconsider my lifestyle choice. I always determined I would happily endure the lows of the drinking life in order to enjoy the highs. I told myself that non-drinking life was a soul-numbing flatline of medium-to-blah existence.

Well, I’m not living medium-to-blah. I’d say I’m medium-to-high-happy. However, my life no longer contains moments of rooftop high when everything is perfect beyond belief. I guess this is because even when things are going fine it’s hard to soberly and rationally decide that life is perfect beyond belief. On the other hand, I’m no longer throwing up in the trash can under my desk at work, so things are looking up.

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