The story so far:
I guess the problem is that I felt like I was the most in control when I was drunk. I controlled how much I drank. I controlled when I threw up in the tub, pushing my forefinger down the back of my throat until I threw up flourescent green margaritas and dark rum and cokes. I could control when it was time to leave, because none of my friends dared to take away my keys.
What I couldn't control, was where the town put their telephone poles. What I couldn't control was my mother's reaction when her perfect daughter was arrested for a DWI. What I couldn't control were my tears as I was handed 300 hours of community service, with an admonishment that I was lucky to be alive.
By the time I finish 300 hours in the community garden, chances are I wouldn't be.
I know I got off easier than most, but that still doesn't erase the stigma of wearing the hideous bright orange jumpsuit while I dig in the soil. I love the look on my mother's face when she comes to pick up Ivy-league daughter, whose on the way to roll around in the mud with the other drunk drivers, litterers and small time thiefs.
I'm glad for one thing though. Atleast Georgie was in the program. He was my angel in orange -- and with 240 hours to go, I could use all the help I could get.