Last week we got the great idea to quit drinking. I don’t recall how the decision was made, but I’m guessing it wasn’t made while drinking, because then we would undoubtedly have yelled WE WILL NOT QUIT DRINKING BECAUSE DRINKING IS THE MOST FUN EVER OMG DID I JUST SET MY HAIR ON FIRE? I’m guessing we didn’t decide when we were hungover, because as Irish science has shown, any decision to swear off booze when you’re eating Advil and a four-pound burrito and fries is an invitation to drink not only that night, but the next morning before going to church. Teetotaling proclamations shared with the Internet are also likely to involve tweeting acts of falling off the wagon after a grand total of four hours and quite possibly kissing your yellow lab on the mouth. Yes, I’m looking at you.
Suffice it to say that the decision was made and pinky sworn to and it’s been a week and a half since I last had an alcoholic drink. As I write this, I’m forced to count the days out on my fingers – nine – so I’m taking that as a good sign. I’ve noted that my hands are steady while doing so, bringing with it great comfort that I wasn’t in DEFCON 5 drinking status. Both matter not. I just didn’t like the way I felt. Weekends, while glorious fun, were often spent in partial recovery mode. Repotting plants and cleaning air filters would have to wait. Teeth were not brushed until noon and cat nails were clipped after the couch had been scratched. The days “after” became the back burner of life, a pile of to dos that I’d get to when the date demanded or I’d run out of human or cat food. I knew I was losing that time for relatively no reason. I’d sigh and vow to do better.
I hated the side effect that alcohol had on my speech, not while drinking – when I was a complete laugh riot and the Laroquette of my Night Court – but after. Precious, simple words always escaped me. “I’m amazed that Rob is such a good cook,” I’d start. “How do you think he made that . . .” I’d find myself searching for the word, whatever its elusive self was, scanning the walls and skies and faces of my comrades for a clue. “That purple thing,” I’d motion with my hands. “The long, firm purple thing,” I’d continue, knowing full well that everyone at the table now assumed I was talking about Rob cooking his own penis. “Eggplant?” someone would finally offer, relieving my momentary anxiety and reminding me that I had little mastery over my first language. How I hated that.
I hated too that drinking left its marks on my face. I may not put salt on my food, but I love it in all things I eat. Tortilla chips, pickles, ketchup. Salt is one of the gifts Oprah gave us, and I’m not shy about licking it from containers and the skin of sweaty homeless men. Combine this with a relatively steady intake of wine, and my face was starting to resemble a baby leg, not the smooth and sweet parts, but that bit from the thigh to the upper calf, the part that when mushed together looks like a head made of sausage, one with black dots for eyes and, in short order, a burrito and fries for a mouth. Bloated is a word used to describe dead bodies and celebrity faces, and wasn’t something I wanted to remember fondly over pictures of me in my thirties. “Grandma Kris?” some wee kid clearly not of blood relation would someday ask. “Were you related to John Belushi?”
I’m now listening, watching, trying to see what sobriety can show me. For example, did you know that Saturday mornings start before 11 am? THEY DO. In fact, there is an entire segment of society that is up and at it before 9, some as early as SEVEN, some picking up freshly brewed coffee while others chastise their children directly under your apartment window. People also run at these hours and cycle and make pancakes from scratch and grocery shop, things I’d avoid doing with even the mildest hangover. After all, hangovers demand easy. They’re the result of bad decisions that only translate into more, into food ordered in, calls left unreturned, unread library books abandoned on the night table, early afternoons spent zoned out on the couch. The evenings are similar. When you aren’t drinking, you have lots of time to do those things that you always complained were out of time’s reach. You do laundry. You write letters to friends; you return emails. You watch television shows that require more than the knowledge of four sexual bases and pick out clothes for the next day’s event. On rare occasions, you iron and remove toothpaste stains from the mirror before they eclipse the view of your entire face. “This must be how people are able to raise children,” I said two days ago, completely without a hint of sarcasm. When you’re sober, you’re able to do.
When you’re sober, you’re also able to feel. I was more than slightly anxious about attending a weekend social event without a drop of booze in my system, not because I’m generally so hammered I can’t function, but simply because I am used to it. Drinking is what I know. A summer night often consists of a cheese plate eaten on a patio, surrounded by friends and loud laughter and a cloud of humidity, accompanied by at least a drink or two. It’s nights like these on which conversation flows and so does my wit. When in social drinking mode, everything involves less effort. Topics seem to spring to mind and comebacks are at times two deep. Without wine, I worried I might be dull, my jokes might fall flat, I might have less to say and much more space in which to say it. This is a hard spot for those who cart around undiagnosed social phobias. It’s taxing enough to worry about being accepted as I’m used to being. Subtract my norm from the equation? I might as well be naked on my high school auditorium stage. And not in the good way.
I felt awkward that night, to be sure, slightly separated from the crowd and more than a little bit ancient, the older woman who decided to climb up on that wagon. There isn’t a way around it. I felt like a bit of a chaperone, the one who realized that even those two beers deep might be irritating folks nearby, who cautioned the tipsy to watch their literal steps and take Metro home. The pleasant surprise? I was eventually at ease with where I was. I was damn funny, or at least I’ll tell myself I was, and at the end of the day, that’s really all that matters. I downed a baseball park soft pretzel with extra salt and drove home free from the need to conduct blood alcohol analyses in my head. I washed my face and changed into clean pajamas like a real, live human adult. I woke the next morning with enough clarity to know that the cats should get the hell off the bed at 6 fucking a.m.
This won’t last forever, of course. I love the taste of both wine and gimlet and have a passion for indulging in all good things that come along with both. But when I do go back, it will be nice to feel like I’m making a choice, that drinking is more than a mindless go-to like putting on mascara without a mirror or making fun of Miley Cyrus. Drinking is an option, just another part of this bright and silly, glorious life, just like shiny pink nail polishes and guilty pleasure television watched with girl friends. Just like burritos and French fries.