<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"><channel><title>Vigilance on Walking in Sober Boots</title><link>https://soberboots.org/tags/vigilance/</link><description>Recent content in Vigilance on Walking in Sober Boots</description><image><title>Walking in Sober Boots</title><url>https://soberboots.org/soberboots/assets/uploads/2023/07/img_1290.jpg</url><link>https://soberboots.org/soberboots/assets/uploads/2023/07/img_1290.jpg</link></image><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en</language><lastBuildDate>Mon, 22 Jul 2019 13:20:00 -0400</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://soberboots.org/tags/vigilance/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Vigilance</title><link>https://soberboots.org/2019/07/22/vigilance/</link><pubDate>Mon, 22 Jul 2019 13:20:00 -0400</pubDate><guid>https://soberboots.org/2019/07/22/vigilance/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;A few months ago I was at a fixed menu dinner for work and I had glanced at the menu not really thinking about booze and agreed that it was fine for me — indeed it looked like a great meal with a number of delectable items that I’d surely enjoy. Everything was perfect until I put a spoonful of the vanilla ice cream that accompanied the pecan pie in my mouth. It was made with bourbon.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item></channel></rss>