Update

So, here's the low-down: I haven't been a saint. I had a brief relapse about a month ago, which resulted in a day-long hangover which I don't wish to ever re-live again. No major damage done, but a stumbling stone along the way. A few days ago, I had a mid-day martini at The King Cole Bar, and was purely satisfied with it. It made me feel happy, and I was fine for the rest of the day. What does it all mean? I don't know. I do know that I still can't drink to excess without bad things happening. I do know that I'm much more aware of having to remain vigilant, and knowing when to stop -- after just one or two. I know that I can only do it, MAYBE, once a week or every other week; any more than that, and old habits die hard. I do know that I like the side benefits of not drinking; in fact, at The King Cole Bar, the baretender looked at me quizically when I came in, and said, "What have you been doing to yourself? You look great. You look like you took off ten years."

At 32, I'm not sure if that's necessarily a good thing, but I'll take the compliment. And refuse the second drink. Better still, not even begin with the first one. Except once in a while.

Conflicted? You betcha.

Day 35

Wow, I hadn't realized that so much time had passed since my last post here! More than a month... whoopee!

OK. I have a confession. I haven't been an angel. I slipped a little last night. I took a sip (a sip) from a friend's cocktail. It was a tiny sip, to be sure; I rolled it around my mouth a bit, and swallowed in slow, orgasmic drops. It was actually quite sexual, come to think of it. And that was it. I know, I know, danger this way lies, but it felt really good, and I was satisfied (more or less) with just the sip. Although I was only half-joking when I threatened to approach the group drinking martinis next to ours, and beg to suck their olives.

Anyway, I did have a moment of clarity: that one sip was so powerful and potent to me, after going 30-odd days without, that I caught something resembling a slight buzz from that one sip -- my tongue felt suddenly heavy, my wit less glib. And as good as that sip felt going down, I was keenly aware of the fact that I liked my overall self much better in the alert, sober state. So I guess this is progress!

Day 25

CLARA BOW

I know, I know...a five day gap. No, no relapses. Ice cream, yes. Vodka, no.

D-Man and I went out last night; he called me up and said, "Well, this is awkward, but would you like to go out for...?" He trailed off, and I replied, "I'll meet you so you can have a drink, and I'll have a soda."

So off we traipsed to a nearby watering hole, where the crowd skews towards the typical aggregation of muscles and Abercrombie & Fitch tee shirts. Within 10 minutes, I was bored out of my mind, and also extremely uncomfortable. Not self-conscious, per se, but I couldn't relate to a single person in the joint.

So D-Man and I took our leave, and decided to have a late supper at a casual, gay-centric diner around the corner, where the crowd was terribly similar: lots of guys in their 20's and 30's, all wearing variations on either the tight-jeans-and-A&F-tee-shirt clone look, or fey-scarf-and-faux-hawk gay "boi" look. In my scrupulously tailored gray trousers, cashmere V-neck and sheared-fur-lined coat, I probably looked and definitely felt like a disapproving old dowager.

As D-Man and I talked, I hit upon an analogy which sort of clarified a lot for me: these gay cliques reminded me a hell of a lot of the cliques who made my school years so miserable. On the one hand, I disliked them, and felt somehow "better" than them; and on the other, I wished I had the capacity to belong to a clique, rather than be on the outside. And, when I stumbled into the gay world, with its own set of cliques and Mean Girls and Jocks, drinking helped to ease the discomfort I felt. The weird thing is, I'm only uncomfortable, or more accurately, feel out of place, in those kinds of settings. Walking into a theater or restaurant, walking down the street, traveling the globe -- I carry myself with so much confidence, it's ridiculous. But put me next to some dude with highlights and a tank top in a silly gay diner, and all of a sudden, I'm a sullen 15 year old again.

Groups have never been my thing, which is why that first AA meeting didn't appeal to me at all. I make friends relatively easily -- contrary to popular rumor, I'm very easy to get along with! -- but I don't belong to a "circle" of friends. D-Man and I commented on this at the bar and restaurant; all these guys were in sewing circles of at least four to six friends, which was really alien to our personalities, and mine in particular.

I would never describe myself as a loner, but I do like time by myself, maybe more than the average person. As a kid, I loved being by myself to draw, or write, or read. I love being by myself still, to do those same things, or to simply window shop, take in a museum, and have a leisurely lunch. 

This is a rambling post, and there's no real rhyme or reason to it...it's all very stream of consciousness. I think a lot of people start drinking either because they're bored or insecure or both, and then it becomes a habit. I'm pretty sure that's how mine started; although the disease itself is another story and probably a whole other can of worms.

Day 20

Day Twenty's Visual Non-Sequitur:


JOAN COLLINS

A friend suggested the other day that my drinking was triggered by uhappiness in other areas of my life. A simple enough explanation; but one I'm intrigued yet skeptical about. I mean, isn't that the oldest cliche in the book? Drinking your sorrows away, drowning your troubles in the bottle? I honestly don't ever remember going on a bender because I was upset or unhappy -- although, to be fair, I don't recall a lot of those benders very well, period. But drinking for me was just "there": to celebrate something, to relax, to unwind, because I was bored, and I suppose, on a few occasions, because I was upset.

More specifically, this friend thought that perhaps I felt creatively stifled by my occupation, and drinking helped to "enlarge" my life, outside of work. Again, it's an intriguing theory, one which I'll have to analyze more in-depth. Frankly, a no-less simplistic alternate explanation would be that I grew up on a steady diet of MGM glamour alternated with tell-all movie star bios; and Joan, Lana, Judy and the rest could drink most of their male counterparts under the table. Of course, they were my idols. Drinking was just part of the glamour package.

Do I feel creatively stifled? Not really...my main failing, in the interest of full disclosure, is a frightening lack of ambition. I have a very strong work ethic, mind you; but that and ambition are vastly different things. I'll do any job put before me to the absolute best of my ability, but I have no grand ambitions of a career, creative or otherwise. The pursuit of beauty in all forms has been my dual savior and downfall. I'm a split personality: a dreamer and a hard-nosed realist; and while the dreamer often dominates my actions, the realist is keenly self-aware of the folly of doing so -- and either is harshly self-critical or bemusedly resigned, depending on my mood.

Hmmm. Maybe there's something connected to my drinking, after all.

Day 18

Day Eighteen's Visual Non-Sequitur:


ANITA EKBERG

To you patient, indulgent souls who've been kind enough to follow these ramblings: no, the loss of my late, lamented silk mohair sport coat did not send me into a tailspin of relapses; I've just been incredibly busy with work and social events these last 3 days. (It's a glamorous life, but someone's gotta live it.)

Thanks to your sane words of advice and shared mourning for said sport coat, I pried myself down off the ceiling and managed to enjoy a nice evening out. I saw Marilyn Maye once again at The Metropolitan Room, which always cheers me up, and then had dinner at The Modern.

Now, The Modern is one of my favorite restaurants -- just a hop, skip and sashay away from my apartment. They also mix THE best martini in town, and the managers, God bless 'em, all know that I enjoy my Beefeater 'tini stirred, straight up with a twist. Upon arrival, there was an unexpected wait for our usual table, so of course, the offers for a comped drink began right away. I politely declined. Throughout the meal, the waiter and other managers began inquiring solicitously about sending over drinks. I need to figure out a really clever way of declining, aside from "No, thanks, not tonight." Just to mix it up a bit.

The following day, I had lunch with my dear friend D-Man (who, as readers of my Other Blog may recall, is the resident sex kitten of my claque), who I have not seen since deciding to Go Sober. D-Man and I have shared many a booze-sodden night painting the town various shades of lavender, so I knew my revelation would send him for a loop. Before I had a chance to drop the bombshell, he already ordered a drink; when I made my spiel, he turned pink with embarassment that he had ordered a cocktail. I reassured him that it made absolutely no difference to me; and it really doesn't. Other people drinking around me doesn't have a whole lot of effect on me. I get a craving now and then, especially for that delicious first sip and tingle. But I'm continuing to learn how to get beyond that.

In talking with my friends, and in hearing from guests to this blog, I'm beginning to realize that everyone has some kind of baggage -- whether it's an addiction, depression, whatever. We all have issues. There is really no such thing as "normal," as we perceive it. In our (my) mind, "normal" has always been equated with "perfect." What's more, we all have our insecurities, and people we may envy and/or admire may think that their lives are absolutely horrid. It's been eye-opening, and reassuring; we're all in the same boat, really. And having baggage is nothing to be ashamed of. It's when we have it, and either don't realize it, or refuse to do something about it, that it becomes a problem.

Day 15

So, the night of my (hopefully) last drunken episode, which prompted me to get sober, I apparently took something of a fall. When I awoke the next morning, I realized that I had skinned my knuckles and completely scuffed my beautiful, handmade caramel-colored benchmades. I don't want to appear completely superficial, but nice things are nice things, and money is money, and I was absolutely horrified (in addition to realizing that I needed to get help). The excellent shoe repair man down the street returned my shoes to astonishingly good condition, and I felt all was right with the world. Sobriety was going nicely, shoes are back in shape, all is well.

A few minutes ago, as I was dressing for dinner, I started to put away some of my warm weather clothes -- it's a nice, breezy 65 degrees in Manhattan right now. The sport coat I was wearing on The Night Of Infamy is one of my favorites, and something of a showpiece: robin's egg blue silk mohair, absolutely gorgeous. Now, the Day After, I had inspected it for any signs of wear or staining, given the state of my knuckles and shoes. I didn't see any, but then again, I was probably still semi-smashed when I looked.

I don't know how I missed it. Two large scuffs in the silk, one almost completely gone through. I have no idea if my tailor can re-weave it or not; and even if he can (which I'm inclined to doubt), I'm fairly certain the repair work will be very noticeable. Again, don't cry for me Argentina, there are worse problems than fucking up a Very Expensive One Of A Kind jacket, but still.

The episode plunged me into a complete state of self-loathing. I hate being an alcoholic. I hate what it does to my mind and body. I hate that it's caused me to ruin, lose or put in danger some truly beautiful things which I carefully saved, planned and cared for. My friends and family, God bless them, have stood by me. I'm apparently throwing my material goods out the window. In the past, if I lost or damaged things, it was just a matter of buying new and replacing them. Well, the gravy train ended with this recession, and there will be no more replacing going on for a while. 

I keep apologizing for sounding like a prat, but dammit, this pisses me off. I'm not pissed about losing material things, per se; I'm pissed at myself for allowing this stupid disease to make me so careless about things I valued. If you are an art collector, imagine defacing a prized painting in a drunken stupor; if you're a musician, imagine destroying your instrument because of your drinking; if you have a prize-winning garden, imagine hacking your rose bushes to Mommie Dearest smithereens because you've been nipping at the gin. We all have "things" that we place great value on, and my personal obsession is clothes -- not just clothes for clothes' sake, but really special, fine pieces. And right now, I'm hating myself for getting this far into a disease that I thought I could control. Yes, I'm 15 days sober; no, I can't change the past. 

But it still sucks.

Day 13

Day Thirteen's Visual Non-Sequitur:


JAYNE MANSFIELD

Well, friends, I have to admit that I'm sort of hoping for a relapse, just to have something interesting to share with you at this stage of the game. As I said before, I'm a bit wary of it being this simple, so we'll see what happens. But, for the time being, I'm feeling really good. I also feel like I look better -- my skin seems clearer, I don't have dark circles under my eyes, etc. I've gained five pounds, but oh well.

I've substituted stopping at the liquor store on the way home with stopping for ice cream; it's not terribly healthy in the long run, but it's been fun so far. (And I make small concessions, like only buying the "light" ice cream, or even sorbet!) However, as people in recovery so often trade one addiction for another, I'm watching the scale to ensure that I don't pull a Kirstie Alley. Five pounds I can live with. Ten is another story. Fifteen, and I'll be tempted to buy the Econo-sized jug of Stoli to dull the pain.

This makes me sound like a complete mess, but what the hell? You've already heard about my ass being dumped off in Harlem. Anyway, as I mentioned before, when I was in my early teens, I was a fat kid. And, because I never do anything half-way, when I was a fat kid, I was totalling entire boxes of frozen mozzarella sticks as an after-school snack. Conversely, when I lost weight, I ran religiously and stuck to a disciplined, low-fat, low-calorie diet. I also took brief, half-hearted detours into anorexia and bulemia, but found the former too boring, and the latter way too messy. I would never be tempted to do either again, but I am mildly obsessed with weight. I joke about it, but these five damn pounds really piss me off; at the same time, I'm finding myself turning more and more to food for some kind of comfort. Now, at 5'6" and 128 pounds (now 132), I can afford a little extra weight. But not TOO much. And, honestly, I don't particularly feel like exploring my psyschological relationship with food at the moment. Sobriety is enough on my plate, so to speak, for now.

So now, instead of asking for a drink with dinner, I ask, "What kind of potatoes come with that?"