Day Eight

Day Eight's Visual Non-Sequitur:


LANA TURNER

Well, I have to say, I feel pretty good this morning. Yesterday evening began with a 7 PM cabaret performance by Marilyn Maye. (You can check The Other Blog later for the fun report.) The Metropolitan Room has a two drink minimum, and of course, in the past, it's always been two martinis for me. I ordered two Diet Cokes and settled in for a fabulous show. And, you know, I didn't really miss the booze. There was a moment, when I saw the trays of martinis and manhattans being ferried by the waiters to the various tables, that I felt a twinge of jealousy. Also, at The Metropolitan Room, the seating is so tight (intimate?) that you're practically on top of your neighbor. The tall, handsome gentleman to my right ordered a scotch and soda, and I contented myself just sniffing in the vapors all evening.

In all seriousness, it was a revelation of sorts (not to get TOO dramatic) to watch a performance 100% alcohol-free. I honestly can't remember the last time that happened. Not that I would get shit-faced on two drinks, mind you, or roll into the theater, opera or ballet stinking drunk, but such events were usually prefaced by a nice dinner, which meant a few cocktails, plus maybe one at intermission. Anyway, it was a great show, and I felt great afterwards. On to dinner.

We had decided to go to Abboccato, one of my favorite places and, conveniently enough, right next door to my building. I've been going there since they opened, have my own table, and generally feel very much at home there. In addition to having great food, they also mix some of the best martinis in town: ice cold, crystal clear, perfect. They also know my order, so I threw the waitress for a loop when I opted for mineral water instead. Later, during the meal, she noticed the empty bread basket, and asked, "Would you like some more beer?" Then, realizing that her Freudian slip was showing, she laughed and said, "I mean, bread! I was just surprised you didn't have your martini tonight!" I just flashed a smile, and replied, "Oh, well, I have such an early start tomorrow..." I'll have to think of smoother responses.

At the end of the meal, the sommelier suddenly appeared at our table with complimentary glasses of sambuca. My friends' eyes widened in dread, but I told them to enjoy theirs, and if anyone wanted mine, they were welcome to it. Being darlings, they made the sacrifice. Ahem. Again, I contented myself with the rather potent fumes.

OK. So I had vanquished the dragon twice, and I was feeling pretty full of myself. Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I decided to bid my friends farewell, and visit one of my favorite watering holes to A) strut around a bit, since I was feeling so damn cocky, and B) see if I could withstand temptation in a gin mill.

When I arrived, the place was fairly busy for a Monday night. There's one woman I see at this particular bar all the time, and I've never seen her sober, once. She's always on the verge of keeling over. The thing is, she's very attractive in that WASP-ish, Dina Merrill way; always impeccably turned out in a very tasteful outfit, with amazing jewelry and handbags; the schism between her patrician looks and the way she behaves is really jarring. It was only around 10:30 PM, and when she showed up last night, she could barely walk a straight line, sent her drink back twice because there wasn't enough vodka in it, and was performing some weird sort of burlesque bump and grind to the music, lifting her lovely Oscar De La Renta skirt up above her thighs, giddily watching herself in the mirror. Some guy she introduced as her "best friend" was with her, egging her on, cupping her blue-blooded ass and grinding up behind her. She fascinated me when I was drunk, and she definitely fascinated me last night. Maybe I identify, I dunno.

Over on the banquettes, a cute young couple was engaged in a prolonged makeout session, downing martinis in between clinches. I felt another slight sting of jealousy, and not just for the gin. A few guys came over to flirt and make small talk, and I was surprised at how much easier it is to flirt when your tongue doesn't feel like it needs shaving. As far as the drinking goes, I wasn't particularly tempted, and I discovered that being in a bar is damn boring if you're NOT drinking, so the experiment, while more or less successful, was an abbreviated one. Oh, and I also learned that club soda mixed with cranberry juice with a healthy twist of lime tastes an awful lot like a real Cape Cod. It definitely tricked my taste buds into thinking I was having a cocktail.

I decided to walk home, as it was a beautiful night, and just felt very contented. However, being the realist-slash-fatalist that I am, I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It can't possibly be this easy, save for the occasional panic attack. As one of the visitors here pointed out, something is very wrong with me if temptation never rears its ugly head. One of the things that frightened the holy heck out of me during AA meetings was the constant tales of relapses. I know I'm only 7 full days into this, but I really don't want to get dragged back into the quagmire. And feeling so good (invincible?) almost feels like the false sense of exhilaration and cockiness I'd get when I reached the place just after mere tipsiness and just before annihilation. I feel TOO good. Something's gotta give. Stay tuned.

Addendum: One disturbing thing DID happen last night; I dreamed that, when I went to the bar, I actually did have a drink. I awoke from this dream around 2 in the morning, feeling very groggy, and for a few moments, I thought that I actually HAD slipped, that I WAS drunk. It was very disorienting. Even now, I feel just a teensy bit like the way I would if I'd been drinking the night before -- that heavy feeling in your head. Those scotch and sambuca fumes must have been stronger than I thought.