I never thought I’d see New York City so…what’s the word? Tame. There are clubs that open at five and close by eleven because Millennials and Gen Z’ers want to get to bed early. People are getting “lit” on mocktails, kombucha, and cbd-infused you-name-its. Dry January is its own month of celebration just like we celebrate black people in February and women in March. Everywhere you look, someone’s jumping on the wagon and dropping the hooch and it pisses me off…because now I’m one of them. Not by choice mind you, but because at the age of 48, my body refuses to accept the abuse it used to take and in the words of Twisted Sister, she “ain’t gonna take it anymore.”
I never considered myself an alcoholic despite the disease running rampant through the veins of my family on both sides. I remember being about five years old when my Uncle Hank would come over to my grandparents’ house. He would lift me up and kiss me with his old man stubble stinking of Schlitz beer and cigarettes. After that heinous kiss, he and my grandpa disappeared to the basement and two hours later, would emerge with faces flush, slurring their words and laughing about something that my grandma did NOT find funny. That was my first foray into the world of what drinking looked and smelled like and as of age five, it was, as they say in French, “dégoutant.”
As I grew older, I started to have a different relationship with the stuff. High school parties unveiled drinking as a rite of passage through the gates of coolness, in college it was a release after finals and also, we discovered how thrilling it was to hide Zimas in our micro-fridges. (Remember Zima?)
When I moved to NYC to start “making it” and living my best Sex-In-The-City life, I discovered being courted by fancy cocktails, fine wines and 5-star dinners which usually came with a price…sex. Hey, if the show was called “Prude In The City” no one would have watched it. Needless to say, that shit didn’t last long because the expectations were too rich for my blood but the drinks, well, I didn’t find them as dégoutant as I did when I was five. So, I found a way to pay for my own imbibing at fancy restaurants; I became a waitress where you can get the shit for free.
Now, this was in 2000/2002 when NYC was still bumping. Clubs stayed up past bedtime and while L.A. was continuing to spread her hippy-dippy wings, New York was still fucking tough; still drankin’, still smokin’, and still a bit gritty despite Giuliani smearing Disney all over Times Square. It was still the place I’d seen in movies and tv shows growing up and I was finally living in the skin of a character I’d played a million times in my head: a leading lady who was equal parts Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte AND Miranda with a backstory in Carol Burnett and a facade of Mary Tyler Moore. But I digress…back to the point: my relationship with drinking.
I’ve heard smokers talk about cigarettes being a “friend” that is there for them through it all. A break from “life.” A moment of camaraderie with other smokers. A club. I think alcohol was the same for me. When I was married it was something my husband and I bonded over. He used to say, “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink.” Maybe I took that to heart. Or maybe I was just predisposed to being a drinker because helloooooo….it’s a fucking disease and my family was a bunch of addicts. Either way, I developed a 6 o’clock wine time habit that started out as drinking-while-making-dinner and graduated to before, during, and after dinner. Sometimes a bottle a night.
It was MY time. MY moment. MY way to wind down from the day as a stay-at-home mom who was still trying to “make it” in New York City. I did this all through my thirties and early forties. It wasn’t until age forty-five when I took a step back to two glasses a night because that was the “safe” amount according to my doctor. Then, about a year ago I started training for a half marathon and things got weird. Some days I would wake up with a slightly swollen left calf. Then I noticed that on the mornings I ran after drinking, my legs were heavier and my split times were slower. Even after cutting the wine back to one glass a night I was still waking up with a splitting headache. Like I said…weird.
Then, all the zeitgeist-y things started smacking me in the face. Like my stepmother, a breast cancer survivor who never eats or drinks an inflammatory thing because of it says, “You know, drinking causes cancer.” I didn’t even realize it. Liver failure? Sure. But it never occurred to me that I was exposing myself to the potential risk of getting seven different types of cancer. SEVEN. The next morning I woke up with a sore throat and immediately thought I had throat cancer which, for a singer, is un-fucking acceptable. I’m not one of those evolved people who can say, “I’m a person who sings.” No…I’m a fucking singer. I identify as a singer, my soul is a singer, therefore, I AM a singer. But even this wasn’t enough to totally quit.
Anaphylaxis wasn’t enough to force me to change my ways. My alimony ran out and I realized…drinking is expensive.
Then, God started doing things to sabotage my “friendship” with the sauce. One night, I opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc and the cork broke inside the bottle. I tried to open another and the SAME THING HAPPENED. I never break corks. Ever. You bet I dug that shit out of the neck of that bottle and drank it anyway, cork debris and all, ‘cause that’s what addicts do. A few nights later I was “rewarding” myself with a full-bodied red which sent me into an allergic reaction alleviated only by Benadryl and bed. Anaphylaxis wasn’t enough to force me to change my ways. My alimony ran out and I realized…drinking is expensive.
So, I have now become one of those preachy, middle aged women who has discovered the benefits of giving up, in the words of Michael Jackson, the “Jesus juice.” It’s been miraculous really. Waking up with no headache or brain fog, no bloat, my skin is brighter, my eye bags are lighter, my workouts are more productive and the fear of getting cancer has, for now, been put at bay. My moods don’t fluctuate as dramatically and in general, I am way more…dare I say…happy? The only drawback has been my replacement of choice: tea. Evening tea can send you to the bathroom in the middle of the night but it’s a small price to pay for one’s overall health. Speaking of prices, not drinking is saving me about $160 per month. That shit adds up.
Now, I applaud the Millennials and Gen Z’ers for taking care of themselves. I applaud NYC restaurants for their drink menus titled, “Cocktails & NA”. I applaud “white wellness” for spreading the good word to the masses, even if its delivery has been pretentious and Karen-y.
Wellness is wellness and the less poison we consume, the healthier we are. Period. Quite frankly, I’m jealous that the movement didn’t start when I was in my twenties.
In the meantime, I’m looking forward to exploring and sharing more discoveries of what being a teetotaler unveils. I’m not sure I won’t ever have a glass or two in the future, but for now, I’m really enjoying the benefits of sobriety. These last 24 hours have been the healthiest 24 hours of my life.
In Laughter,
LStL
p.s. Y’all…my Substack Podcast drops this FRIDAY!!! Like all good drug dealers, the first one is free, the next ones are for paid subscribers. ;-)
Great stuff. Love it.