I don’t care about being sober anymore. It’s not that I’ve reverted to drinking (I still live an alcohol-free life) but I literally don’t care much anymore. I cared quite a bit seven months ago when I wrote Six Months Sober. And right after I published that piece, the outreach was palpable. Friends, family, and colleagues reached out also sharing how it had affected them. Many now reach for booze less.
My friends even stopped asking if I’m drinking at dinner. I was officially relegated to being the sober friend, huzzah..? One of my closest friends sent me a 6-month sobriety chip as a joke. It sits prominently on my desk. (Commit to the bit, Alejandro, and send me a one-year.)
I’ve been quite annoyed the last month, though. My plan was to write the “One Year Sober” follow-up. But it has been disturbed by, well, a lack of new sober benefits. The best piece of material I’ve posted in two decades of (sporadically) posting musings on my websites didn’t have an obvious sequel. My Marvel sobermatic universe was seemingly over before it even began. Yet here we are.
7 months later
I hate instant contradictions, but I now have reverse veganism with sobriety: I’m telling fewer and fewer people I have it. Newly discovered benefits of removing alcohol from my diet leveled off shortly after I wrote SSS. But I still sleep well, think clearer, and a slew of other positives. Although, I must admit, my reintroduction of soda did rebound my waistline a skosh. Whatever. Nicole still seems to find me attractive.
Alcohol’s absence in my life is still felt on a daily basis in many boring ways, but not nearly like the first six months of sobriety. I could argue this is a wonderful discovery, but given so many people still ask me what it’s like, I figured I’d play a last song about it.
Turbulence
I’m writing this late encore from a plane. And as a frequent flier, I experience a lot of turbulence – like even at this exact moment these keystrokes are happening. Despite logging dozens of flights each year, I’m terrified during moderate turbulence. I pay $8 to United to get WiFi so I can see when the turbulence will end when it starts.
I, like everyone, hate uncertainty and not having control of my situation. Turbulence embodies both. The sporadic air surrounding our plane creates uncontrollable conditions we passengers experience, but when we hit “smooth air” – it’s like (what I presume) smoking a cigarette is like.
It’s also exactly what the 7-month milestone of being sober felt like for me.
Sweet Sweet Satisfaction
After a plane leaves behind uncertain air, the captain turns the seatbelt sign off, and our collective butts unclench, it’s a pure injection of satisfaction. We feel the bliss of stability and the fictitious obituary I’m writing for myself gets crinkled up and tossed into the wastebasket.
But a flight without any turbulence? A Grade-A Snooze Fest.
The omnipresence of alcohol in my body was, at best, self-inflicted turbulence. The symptoms were exactly the same. My body was clenched, my thoughts unclear, and yes, the occasional intrusive thought of death would meander through my head.
Turning the corner after six months of being sober has felt like driving through Nebraska on a cross-country road trip. I haven’t discovered anything I didn’t know about. It’s flat. There’s nothing new to write about and I can only write about how many cows there are so much.
But long boring drives are when I do my thinking.
Decisions... decisions...
I’ve thought a lot about the negativity that surrounds alcohol the last year. The recent US Surgeon General’s scathing review of alcohol likely didn’t help, and the terms we’ve adopted to describe alcohol almost feel like Big Water™ wrote them.
For example, being “under the influence” has an especially negative tone in our society now, but one way or another, we are all under the influence of many things, at many times, in many forms. For example: The news is an influence. Your job is an influence. Age is an influence. And where you physically are at any given moment influences you.
I stand by what I wrote earlier this year: Alcohol was a net positive for me. It helped influence the bond of friendships, hundreds of wonderful nights in beautiful places, and in many ways, the founding of FireHydrant. Alcohol is fungible, and its purpose is one you may have the luxury to decide (for alcoholics, this isn’t an option unfortunately.)
As a recipe
Alcohol is an ingredient. But in my next metaphor, it’s a figurative ingredient.
The dish of life only gets more complex. A chef will tell you crowding the pan with too many ingredients means all of them cook less effectively. And for me, the brightness of other things in my life’s skillet weren’t coming through enough for my taste. Things felt, as Paul Hollywood would say, stodgy.
Something had to give. I chose alcohol. You may choose something else. You should choose crack if you do crack. Or meth. Or Fox News.
No matter what you choose to take out of the skillet of your life, though, you’ll definitely continue to think about it. I certainly haven’t forgotten about my love of cocktails.
My Martini
I still want a martini every once in a while. Back in the day, I’d bring a book, notepad, or even a laptop to the bar to unwind. I’d banter with the bartender. I’d meet new people. I chose hotels based on how close a great bar was.
But do I miss my martini or the situation I’d drink my martinis in?
Most of our total time in a bar isn’t literally drinking. In fact, by the numbers, I’d guess less than 95% of our time we’re even touching our drinks. People go to bars to hangout, get a little silly, and maybe meet someone new. I wanted to be in a place where the unexpected could happen. What better place for that than a bar?
On my Nebraska road trip the last 6 months I’ve realized that my beloved martinis were nothing more than a ticket for admission to sit at my favorite bars. Hell, even as I edit this very post (after surviving my turbulent-laden flight earlier) I’m sitting at a bar at my San Francisco hotel. Now I’ll order a bitters and soda, some food, and tip the staff out accordingly. It’s their livelihood, after all.
Early mornings without consequences
When I think about the early mornings I had to battle with a hangover, my head hurts all over again. The money spent, the damage done, and the lost Sunday. Those days are gone for me, but recently I had a fun reminder of what we ourselves used to do after having a few too many.
During the summer, my partner Nicole (who is my sober co-founder) and I had one of those early morning flights that makes you wonder what ghoul possessed you when you booked it. Our 4am alarm went off, then our 4:05am alarm went off, and we left our apartment en route to Newark Liberty.
But as the apartment elevator door opened to our lobby two neighbors were coming home from a night out. Their surprise at seeing our luggage prompted an unbridled and slurry “Are you going to the airport right now?!” – Witnessing their DUI (disbelief under the influence) was a poetic reminder of my past. After we replied with a simple “yes” not expecting a conversation at 4:30am in our lobby, they yelled back “Ok! Have a great flight!” as the elevator doors closed. But knowing we would not be upset with our dastardly drunkenness keeping us up so late felt familiar.
Flying into smooth air, and the seatbelt sign turning off.
