I stopped drinking for October for a number of reasons. The first was that I drank all through September. I got bad news, and good news, I had a birthday, friends had birthdays, and I drank. We mixed negronis in our kitchen and I drank strong gins on sticky dance floors. I am the type of person who gets gifted bottles of red wine; I am not the person who saves them for a special occasion. I poured a large glass on the night we got burgled, after Adam got home, and I could unclench my fists.
The second reason was just that: we got burgled, and walking down the street we live on began to feel like walking into battle. My fingernails would dig into my palms the second I turned off the well-lit main road. I could feel my heart rate start to go up as I approached the front of our house, waiting to see the window open, the glass smashed, a strange body silhouetted by our curtains. I was too afraid to get home drunk, or even just one glass deep; scared I would vomit or cry or scream or trip.
The third reason is because I can. Sobriety isn’t really something I’ve danced with, not since I started drinking in university, horribly strong vodka and cranberry mixes night after night. In the cold dark of January, I abstain from dairy and meat, but not from alcohol. But this July, after an alcohol-imbued, hazy, beautiful June, I went sober for a month and encountered easy early mornings, longer runs, more restful sleep. So in October I’ve done it again.
Last night I almost slipped. I walked down to the beach for my last evening in LA and watched the sun dip under an orange-streaked horizon. I sat on my own in a busy restaurant and ordered scallops as big as the ball of my thumb. Everyone was pairing their seafood with a picpoul, a pint. I chose what I would get. I justified it to myself – my last night alone, just one small glass, the seafood would taste to much nicer – and then, I ordered an alcohol-free beer and ate my scallops slowly with Anne Patchett for company.
I am not an alcoholic but when I’m not drinking, I think about drinking a lot. I think about how easy it is to have a conversation about wine; how much wait staff like giving recommendations, and how much I like taking them. I think about how dining alone is easier with a glass in hand; how sitting alone with a book is easier to justify with wine to slowly sip. Tonight I will be on a plane for ten hours, and I will miss the way a terrible small bottle of wine makes it easier to nod off into the roaring dark.
Forcing abstinence upon yourself is a strange human desire. What a middle-class inclination, to practice want. With so much excess available to us, it is perverse to implement your own deprivation. I have too much, I have had too much, there is too much here for me. I am practicing saying no to the things I want, in preparation for what?