Please Don’t Tell Your Kids I’ve Hit Rock Bottom
Hi ho! Kermit the Frog here.
It’s been a long time coming, but I finally have to admit that I have a problem.
For years I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise — making sure that whatever I did, it never interfered with my work. As long as I arrived on time to the set, I told myself, everything was okay. As long as the partying didn’t start until after noon, I was okay.
I lived this charade for ages, willfully ignoring the 800-pound Snuffleupagus in the room.
Although no one ever said anything to me, I was blind to the truth. I didn’t want to acknowledge that my lies and excuses were fooling no one. When I showed up with a black eye from a bar fight with a Fraggle, I claimed I’d walked into a door. When I got rolled by a gang of finger puppets on the 7 Train I didn’t mention one important fact: I was completely passed out.
Belongings left in cabs. Drunken rants on Facebook. The 2am Instagram posts on a Wednesday. Hurling insults at Bert and Ernie, even though they’d never done anything to deserve it.
Lovely couple, by the way.
Friends distanced themselves. I’d just assumed it was Muppets moving on with their lives, being busy with work and kids. When I learned I hadn’t been invited to Big Bird’s 50th, the real reason didn’t even occur to me.
I’ve been tossed out of more bars than I can recall. Of course, in my mind it was always the bouncer’s fault. When I was cited for crying in the middle of a busy street, I told the cops I was “really sad about Mister Hooper.”
Never once did I consider the real problem.
Miss Piggy, bless her, she tried to help me — until one day she’d had enough. I should have seen writing on the wall right then and there. Instead, I blamed her. I told any stranger unlucky enough to sit next to me at the bar that I’d left her because she had cankles.
Then, this morning, as I downed my daily aspirin and gazed in the mirror with my bloodshot eyes, I had an epiphany: I needed help.
Count von Count had struggled in the past, so I called him. He immediately directed me to a 1–2–3–4–5–6–7–8–9–10–11–12 Step Program.
I’m happy to say I’m on the path to recovery now. It’s not going to be easy, but neither is being green.
