FIRSTS: Triumphs and Ugly Truths
Firsts.
Life is full of firsts.
First days of school: What to wear? Who to be? Will I be cool this year?
First day of college: What to wear? Who to be? Can I reinvent myself? Will I finally be cool?
First dates: What to wear? (see a pattern here?) What to say? What not to say? Who to be? Does he think I’m cool?
Etc. etc. etc
I’ve had a few firsts these last few months. As the pandemic ebbs in and out of its social constructs, its difficult to know if the anxiety of these firsts is because of sobriety or a response to the panic of re-entry into normal life. A combination of both I suspect. And away we go.
The first of firsts: A Concert
A local DJ organized a socially distanced concert at a small venue on the beach that culminated in acoustic blues, a sunset and fireworks. It was a perfect night. To be out in public, safely, in fresh air, at golden hour and sitting ten feet from one of my favorite artists. Mr. G. Love.
All this amazingness and you know what the takeaway was? The truth.
I love concerts. Like, really, really love concerts. And, bottom line, I haven’t fully experienced a live show since my introduction via The Thompson Twins, Howard Jones, and The Violent Femmes at 15. (Hi, My name is Jennifer, and I am an 80’s girl) Each time after that first foray I was under some sort of influence. Wether it be pregaming in the car with stolen alcohol from a parents liquor cabinet later leveled up with water (why does every generation think they are responsible for this brilliant act of thievery and defiance?) Or the rare joint provided by a friend of a friend of a friend. Or that guys brother.
As G sang Drinkin Wine it dawned on me that I haven’t really “been” to a concert in some 35 years. My preoccupation with when to run get a drink, how not to slosh it weaving through the crowd, the inevitable need to pee that meant a half hour wait in line and soggy bathroom floors (venues can we possibly put our collective heads together to solve this age old problem?), only to start the hamster wheel all over again when it’s time to get in line for another drink, and so as not to miss the headliner—should I double fist?—was always at the forefront of my mind. It occupied so much headspace there was hardly room to take in the spectacle around me! The spectacle I supposedly loved and had spent my meager earnings on. The spectacle I was never really FULLY present for!
Too often, hazy memories of singing favorite songs, arms slung over my besties or my new found stranger drunken besties (relationship forged by good music and gin) were just that—hazy. Everything was blurred. Soft. Vague. I certainly wasn’t getting what I paid for. So, as Garrett crooned and strummed, I smiled in the knowing that I was fully present. Not wanting or needing anything in my hand or body beyond this. I was aware. I was there. It was amazing.
A clear triumph
Second First: Dinner out with friends
Our dinners out have always started with a signature cocktail i’ve procured from my long list of seasonal, and event appropriate options. This time it was a whiskey/apple cider/cinnamon concoction. I prepared theirs and subbed my whiskey with ginger beer. In front of them. Not a peep. Dinner was usually started with a cocktail and then my gf’s husband and I would share a bottle of wine, my husband got his IPA, and she nursed another cocktail. I said I was just having water (this being before I fully embraced the pleasure of mock-tails) and he ordered a glass of wine and everything continued as normal. Wonderful conversation, laughs, talks of parents, kids, old times ensued. The evening ended around a bonfire in my backyard with more whiskey ciders and ginger beer for me. After they left, I was aghast. Neither of them had said a thing. How could this be? I was the cocktail queen! I was sure there’d be questions. Inquiries. Interrogations. I had practiced in depth and surface answers, unsure of how far I wanted to dive into my newfound sobriety. And then…not a word. I was happy and a bit taken aback because…they really didn’t notice? Or care?
A lesson in humility. I am the only one obsessed with every move I make, every drink I take (Sting FOREVER)
Third First: Weekend Alone
(Dodge, Duck, Dip, Dive, Dodge— Patches O’Houlihan Dodgeball )
Time alone. As an introvert I treasure it. Even more so since the pandemic and my daughters education has been relegated to some bizarre form of senioritus homeschool. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy time with my little joy bunny (my nickname for her—if you knew her you’d know why) but some solitude is a most welcome respite. So when she and my husband left to explore the new town she would call home at the beginning of September, I was elated. Four days to myself. To eat what I want: sushi and pizza subs, not in that order or at the same time, I’m no heathen. Watch what I want: Brittish procedurals, with the subtitles on, because, although I may not be a heathen, some of those strong brogues baffle me, and you can’t be baffled when you’re actively hunting bad guys. Do what I want: a bit of gardening, facials, sauna, reading, writing, pinning. To say I was looking forward to it is an understatement. The word glorious comes to mind.
Netflix and chill: level 11.
So as I sat in the maze of cars leaving the airport, I was at a loss when an undulation of yearning was followed by a deep sense of panic. I wanted a drink.
Bad.
Now.
This was not good.
My anxiety skyrocketed. Heart pounding, mind racing, palms sweating, anxiety. An attack on my nervous system as I longed for what used to be, and confronted what was. Without an inkling as to how to proceed.
The joy of freedom was replaced with something more than trepidation and slightly less than fear. I was disconcerted. And most troublesome—without a plan. I had no idea I would react this way. Crap. This was unexpected.
I was suddenly afraid to be alone. Afraid I would drink.
In hindsight, I’m not sure why I would be stunned by this. Before sobriety, a weekend alone started with a dirty blue martini and the uncorking of a bottle of wine to drink while downing the food I was hankering. My banquet for one was accompanied by a documentary about cults, criminology (something I find fascinating and my husband finds, judging by the look on his face, south of pleasant) or perhaps a horse movie: Secretariat, Hidalgo, Seabisquit (You can take the girl away from the horse but you can never take the horse out of the girl), depending on my mood. My riotous nights spent couch surfing without a doubt ended with me waking around 1 am and trudging up to bed without brushing my teeth OR washing my face because I’m a rebel like that. (sidetone: what passed as rebellious as a teen compared to what we consider rebellious in our 50’s is shameful. When did we turn into this lukewarm milk?)
Rapid fire tools started to appear: swap out the macabre movie for a sobriety tale, walk the dog long enough to get over the hump, do not pass go walk directly upstairs put on a sheet mask (harder to sip a cocktail lest the goo slicked mesh wrinkle warrior slip into my eyeballs) lay down and devour a sober blog, sober book, sober podcast, sober anything, with soothing lavender pumping through the diffuser, OR attend a zoom AA meeting,
I found a list of sober movies, watched a few trailers and decided they seemed horribly depressing (unlike Dateline or 2020? debatable) and not at all something I could dive into with a bowl of popcorn and AF Seedlips and tonic.
Walking the dog was out of the question as it was just getting dark and although I live in a very safe neighborhood the thought of a chloroform yielding rapists overtaking me and transporting me to a secondary location (as any avid Law and Order fan knows is the biggest no no of no no’s) lurked deep in my soul (recall my penchant for researching the psychology of sadists? While I strongly argue that this somehow prepares me for an attack, I do acknowledge that it has a tendency for me to go into hyper-vigilance/paranoia on occasion. A dichotomy of reasoning on my part to be sure. The yin and yang of true crime passion).
I didn’t want to stifle myself up for a face mask because, although I value my alone time, I do not want to spend it hoveled up in my bedroom like a sulky teenager. Self care/pampering should be fully relaxed into and enjoyed. It should not be a perfunctory act to keep me from shooting myself in the foot. (side-note: does anyone else take issue with these endless self care lists that tout bubble baths, masks, foot scrubs, body scrubs, lip scrubs but not what would be the most beneficial? In short, what we probably need most is a good soul scrub. Think: therapy, coffee with a close friend, setting a 15 minute timer to organize a drawer that drives you nuts, breathing breathing breathing, walks by any body of water, petting a cat/dog/chicken or laying in the grass under the sun or stars. Lets widen that self care world up to some new possibilities that are cleansing, practical and truly “help the self” shall we? …steps off soapbox… cut to scene)
Next stop on the “do not fantasize about a cocktail” train: a meeting. In the rooms. Immerse myself in fellowship so I’m not white knuckling right into a slip. See, I know the lingo and the basic breakdown of what an hour has in store for me. But I will acknowledge that I am intimidated by the thought of entering into said room. Although—considering we are still in Covid Zoom days, and the lighting in my computer room is undoubtedly the worst you can possibly imagine, so much so that I tend to look like those shadow people they interview on Friday night investigative journalism shows who can’t show their face in fear of discovery followed closely by a professional hit. My set up is the equivalent of zoom WITSEC. So I convince myself that a meeting is the most effective and efficient way to resolve this predicament.
A quick google search had me in a woman’s only meeting within minutes. There were two celebrations that night— a 10 year soberversary and a 6 year. That seemed impossibly far away from where i’m currently sitting. When it came my turn to spill I unloaded exactly why I was there. And it was fine. I didn’t spontaneously combust or choke or die of embarrassment. I was very self conscious and very much sounded like a newby, I’m sure, but I did it. And it was a relief.
And exactly what I needed.
I had no desire or cravings the rest of the weekend. It was strange how fast the craving came on. And how quickly it lifted.
And now I have one more tool in my arsenal.
A few rapid fire firsts: houseguests, vacations, celebrations
We recently celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. That’s 9,131 days waking up next to the same person. A milestone would be drastically understating this accomplishment. It was not what we had planned in our heads, thank you Covid19 again for your unrelenting left turns and lessons, but it was wonderful. What we thought would be Paris, Amalfi coast or a secluded Greek Island (where I was VERY likely to sing ABBA, horribly and loudly, sober or not) ended up being a trip to three of our grand Naional Parks: Sequoia, Kings Canyon and Yosemite. I stocked up on a plethora of seltzers, Lagunitas IPA hop juice, AF “spirits”, mixers and NA canned “cocktails”. Vacations that started with white wine lunches were a treasured tradition in my marriage. (How do you know you’re on vacation? Drinking at noon!) So I prepared. And, as it was just my man and I, and as he knows I am sober, it was easy. Like, really, truly, unbelievably, so.
Thank goodness. I’m due for some easy.
Our fancy dinner out on the date of our champaign-less 25th anniversary? Lovely. From the overpriced cucumber mock-tail, cloud blocked grey fading to grey sunset, to the handholding and fretting over our youngest leaving the nest. All of this: no hangover required.
Next up: my wine loving BIL, his fiancé and my craft beer connoisseur niece.
I had texted my BIL, who I adore, that I was not drinking, at least for now, (wink wink), just so he was prepared and didn’t show up with a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine that I was expected to enjoy. (and let me be perfectly frank here: under no circumstances would I ever be able to tell the difference between a $12 or $450 bottle of wine. Any one of them could be jamm-y, currant-y, spice-y, legg-y, robust-y or sweet and I would apply any number of those adjectives to them. Invariably wrong. Don’t ever waste money on the good stuff for this household. We are a simple folk.)
My niece did not know. Her response was a mix of a perplexed “huh, ok?” and disbelief that anyone would willingly forgo any form of alcohol. Her first question, after the shock of losing her drinking buddy, was “but you’ll still make me cocktails right?” and I assured her that yes—the bar was still open. Which, for some odd reason, doesn’t bother me in the least.
The long weekend passed along with great bottles of wine, cocktails mixed and served, beer and hard cider tastings and me DDing all over the city. I think it was a success. I felt a bit nervous/off, perhaps not as bubbly as pre-sober/pre-covid/pre-2019, but that was probably equally due to our recent isolation as much as me not boozing along with the rest of them. So even if I wasn’t the life of the party, I knew there were clean sheets and toilets, fresh flowers, good food, a few laughs, and some games that everybody enjoyed. All in all I am going to count it as a win.
So there you have it. Firsts, firsts and more firsts. And plenty more to come. And I’m feeling pretty good. Granted, I’m consciously reigning in that cocky attitude that takes over, wether I’m well equipped or not, and always seems to land me in some sort of hot water, and in turn leaning into being prepared and humble. Staying on guard and prayerful as the firsts come. Knowing all firsts may be hard, but they lead into seconds.
And I like seconds.
Jennifer
(PS—I think I might finally be inching into cool. At least in my own head. Or maybe I’m not cool. And that, in itself, is cool. Or I might just be The Fonz jumping the shark)