Kenny and I went to the same small college at Cornell together, though neither of us remember the other at all.  We “met” about twenty years ago when we were both on a “blue ribbon”committee investigating government corruption.  We became fast friends when, at the first meeting, we sat next to each other and listened to the committee’s lawyer speak, explaining the committee’s purpose in a way predestined to assure our outcome.  I leaned toward Kenny and said, “I can name that tune in three notes.” He whispered back, “I can name it in two.”  That was all it took.

Kenny is a lawyer.  He’s one of those larger than life personalities, who seizes a room the moment he walks in.  He’s funny, crude and brilliant.  He’s got a memory like a steel trap.  When we play golf together, people think we’re brothers, which I like since they think I’m the younger, better looking sibling.  He’s a year older than I, and it isn’t often that people use the word “younger” around me these days.

Kenny has two sons, both nice kids, good kids, and quite brilliant.  Against his advice, both are in law school.  The good news is that neither plans to practice law or become social media marketers. Both intend to lead productive lives.

We hadn’t seen Kenny and his lovely wife for a while, as they are constantly on the go.  Last night, we finally had a chance to get together for dinner.  What’s great about a friend of almost twenty years is that, when you haven’t seen them for a while, it’s as if you saw them the day before.  You just pick right up where you left off, the bit of time in between disappearing immediately.  The women did all the requisite catching up on children and parents, and the men just talked about the inconsequential nonsense that men talk about and made jokes at each other’s expense.

The restaurant was a French bistro, fairly reasonably priced for the area with food that sounded as if you would find it across the Pont Neuf, but tasted like it was meant for someone who never stepped foot on Ile St. Louis.  I had the steak au poivre, assuming that it’s fairly hard to screw up steak.  Kenny had carré d’agneau under the same theory.  I drank two glasses of a horrible Shiraz from inappropriate stemware, while he drank vodka from a water glass.  We all had desserts, Kenny profiteroles and I bananas Foster.

We had a wonderful time, hugged and kissed and went home at a respectable hour.

I went to sleep quickly and was up by midnight.  It felt like the house was on fire, the thermostat at 100 degrees.  It was set to 58, though the temperature was ten degrees higher.  I was dying.  Got up to drink some water.  I wandered around the house for a bit, then turned on the television and watched a show I can’t recall.  I dozed and awoke.  It was one o’clock.  Rinse and repeat.

One of the things that happens to the body over time, at least to some of us, is that we can no longer eat large quantities of food, or rich foods.  Similarly, we fall out of practice with alcoholic beverages, especially red wine.  The tanins are killers.  Put them all together and it wreaks havoc on one’s systems.  It’s great going in, but the price you pay goes far beyond the check.

I’m exhausted this morning and can barely stand up, no less think.  There were a few things I planned to write about, but I won’t.  I can’t.  Not today.  I have a very busy day ahead of me and no clue how I’m going to muddle through.  I feel miserable.

I wonder how Kenny feels this morning?