I tried to become an alcoholic in my early twenties, as I’m assuming most people did. I don’t mean to brag, but I was really good at it. I was the Michael Phelps of drinking, and like him, I wasn’t going for just one medal. I was going for all of them!
You’d be surprised how unsupportive friends and family were.
Here’s what made me a champion drinker: I wasn’t a mean drunk, I didn’t drive while inebriated, I didn’t black out, pass out, or puke, and I never once had a hangover. I was invincible! And my drinking didn’t interfere with my daily responsibilities. In other words, I was a high-functioning alcoholic. Which, if you think about it, is basically the same thing as being a non-drinker.
Once I was in a dive bar with my husband, knocking back cocktail after cocktail. I got up to go to the bathroom and told him that if the waitress came by while I was gone, to please order me another drink. When I came back, he told me that the waitress asked him if I was on a mission.
I was pissed. How dare she judge me? I wanted to get up in her face and tell her off. “Take a look around, lady! We’re in a shitty bar in the suburbs. Nobody is here to pray, or exercise, or read a book. Every loser here is on a mission!”
Sure, I left that place on spaghetti legs, but that was the worst of it. No harm done.
Alas, friends and family kept telling me that what I was doing wasn’t cool. I had no other choice than to give up drinking, which I did, over twenty years ago.
My husband now tells me he wishes I could have one beer with him when we’re at a restaurant, so he doesn’t have to drink alone. (Ahem, I did some of my best drinking alone, back in the day, just me and a six-pack of Corona). What the hell am I going to do with ONE beer?! It’s not like I drank because I enjoyed the taste of hops and yeast – I only drank to get messed up. And I’m not going to even get a buzz off one beer.
Nah, man – I’ve retired. I hung up those medals long ago.