(Argh. What is it with me and this web log? I guess the problem is that too many people I know read it. That didn’t seem a problem until it became design clients, siblings and my parent’s friends.
Until I write that web log mission statement, letting myself know exactly what this web site is all about, I’ll continue what I was otherwise doing. But as I love making web sites for my job–I’m left with a trifle less enthusiasm about doing it at home.)
As James struggled with quitting smoking, I struggled with figuring out what my contribution would be.
What’s the vice I can’t imagine living without, the vice that I enjoy daily and feel it’s impossible to say no to?
The vice I balked at giving up every time was booze, specifically wine.
I talked around it for a month.
“You know, I should really lighten up on the booze. Maybe tomorrow,” I said as I justified another hard day at the office, stress over moving and simple daily disappointments.
Finally, three weeks later, I think I might have a new habit.
I haven’t been drinking lately.
I mean, I’m not a complete teetotaler, I’d knocked back my share for James’ birthday.
But after my umpteenth New Year’s spent over a toilet, I figured I could leverage my newfound distaste for alcohol into something workable.
It’s a low-level, lazy person’s alcoholism,
an alcoholism that rewards itself with an immediate glass of wine when I get home,
one with preparing dinner,
a topper for drinking with dinner and
another topper to knit or watch whatever movie or television show we’re winding down with.
Alcoholism of habit,
Habitolism?
All of a sudden I was down 85% of a bottle of wine and stumbling to bed early where I slept a little too soundly and woke up parched at four am.
So, it’s been three weeks, three weeks of no alcohol during the week.
Seriously? It’s been up there with the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Why has it been so hard?
I work with wine all day, wine bottles, wine glasses, stories of wine adventures, delicious wine recipes.
Why has it been so hard?
I’ve changed, my friends have changed, withdrawing, moving on, separating.
It’s normal, it’s understandable, it’s part of life,
I’ve been through this before
and this time, just like the last times, hurts.
That hurt is a whole lot easier to deal with after three glasses of shiraz.
Without that blissful, agony-dulling wine, with the whole, long evening of sobriety ahead of me,
well, it’s painful.
I feel dumped, I feel raw,
I feel like yelling, “I’m OVER HERE”
I feel like I’m being mocked, like my settled, suburban existance has nothing in common with their grassroots city living and gritty single realities.
And I feel embarassed.
And these are the feelings I’ve avoided writing about because they’ve been too raw, too gravel-filled, too infected to inflict.
Some are exaggerations, some are closer to the truth, but they’re raw nonetheless.
They’re the epitomy of sober feelings.
And I’m hoping to use them to fuel some art, to fuel some stories, to care for my people more strongly.
Tonight’s Friday and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the weekend booze. I know I’m a little less afraid of some parts of myself and a little more afraid of others.
And I hope it gets easier.
