I finally found a place to live. I’m renting a room in the house of a couple who demand a clean and sober living environment. I’m down with the “sober” part but based on their current housekeeping standards “clean” seems like an exercise in irony. Oh well, it will do.

A year ago I was a drunk … and a sales executive with a six figure compensation and my own house. I’m not trying to be pretentious (well, maybe I am), I’m just trying to establish a frame of reference. Because now I’m working a back breaking, minimum wage job and living in a closet. Oh, how Olympus has fallen.

Dear Karma, can we negotiate a payment plan?

OK, enough self pity. Let’s take an inventory of the positive.

I have a job. I needed it. The work is hard but that’s a good thing. I’m getting paid to get in shape. And I’m not whiling the day away in my head, which is a scary place with poor ventilation. Loading 20 – 40 times my weight (I weight 220 lbs, you can do the math) of product everyday tends to clean the mental pipes.

I have a place to live. Sure, it’s not the Waldorf Astoria but it’s base camp. It beats moving from couch to couch. Besides, my work situation will improve and, with it, my living situation.

I have momentum. I wanted a job. I got one. I needed a place to live. I found one. I’ve laid the groundwork for climbing out of this hole. Hand over hand, day by day, I’ll make my way up. Eventually, the day will come when I crest the rim and bask in the sunlight.