Drinking Outta Cups
I got out of bed at 8am today. I just opened my eyes, and I was immediately wide awake, which has happened maybe thrice in my life.
Weekend mornings have been consistently better since I stopped drinking (almost a year ago now.)
I hear myself telling people about how I quit drinking pretty often. It has to be extremely annoying to my closer friends who are usually nearby when it happens. It’s just been a life changer for me. I stopped, and it was this moment where I finally gave myself permission to move on from all the questionable things I’d done in my adult life, alcohol-related or not. And while I’m incapable of actually letting anything go, it was a really nice moment with myself.
When you quit drinking, weekend wake-ups become the most enjoyable activity in your life. You roll over around 7 from the sound of your phantom alarm, hit your phone to check the time, and feel a wave of pleasure wash over you as you realize that you can continue sleeping for as long as you want, and when you wake up, you’re going to feel the same age that you were when you went to bed, if not 6-8 months younger. I call it a snorgasm #nailedit
People ask me how dating is when you don’t drink. Here’s the thing- it’s a thing. I obviously don’t want to end up dating someone who isn’t cool with me not drinking so YES, I have dodged a few bullets by disclosing to Tinder guys early. But it’s something I wish we didn’t always have to talk about so early. My openness with sharing the story of my completely unprompted, wholly voluntary decision to be the least fun person at every party does not extend to guys that I maybe want to sleep with twice a week for 4-6 weeks.
To be fair, most of the guys I talk to are drinkers, and most genuinely don’t seem to care when they find out I’m not. And they almost always decide not to drink on our dates, to be respectful. I like the sentiment but if I’m being honest, I want them to drink. If one of us can’t drink, I feel like the other one has a responsibility to drink twice as much and then go home and send the sober person embarrassing texts. One of us has to. Take one for the team.
But seriously, you acting like a normal human and having a drink in front of me just makes me feel like we can be cool with each other being real people. You drink, I don’t. You’re going to Burning Man, I will not. I like The Office, and you had better fucking like The Office.
One unfortunate side effect of this self-imposed corner-turning is that I find myself saying the word “mocktail” every so often without doing it in a hilarious pretend douchey voice. I’m not thrilled with this development.
In other news…
The other day while getting on the train at Fulton St I experienced the most concentratedly stressful 8 seconds of my life. I walked up to take my place amongst the gaggle of commuters pressed against each other, ready to shove each under onto the tracks at the first sign of budging. I was fumbling with my motherfuckingearbuds and when I looked up, I saw that the woman in front of me was wearing her shirt inside out.
I have never experienced the level of conflict within my own head that this elicited. Cute, if uninspired, illustrations of a devil and an angel character appeared out of thin air and perched on my shoulders. I should tell her. But then it might seem weird that I was looking at her shirt. But I would want a stranger to tell me. Or would I? I would definitely want a friend to tell me but maybe it’s not cool coming from the woman currently breathing down her neck. I mean to be fair the tag is the same color as the shirt and most people won’t be standing this close to her. This all played out over 8 seconds, tops. Then, finally, I made up my mind. I would tell her. And right at that moment the subway doors closed in my face and she disappeared forever.
The next day, I was walking down Park Ave. on my way to work and I saw a woman walking towards wearing. hand-to-God the coolest shoes I have ever seen. They were blue suede flats, with a lip of the front of the foot hole (technical cobbler terminology) that was kind of pointed. And yes, I realize you can’t picture them, because that was a terrible description. So as I continued walking, my brain, ever so slowly, registered that I was obsessed with these shoes. But by the time I realized I should’ve asked her about them, she was long gone.
And now, I can’t find the shoes. They are not on the internet, I can tell you this because I looked at every webpage that exists to try and find them (shut up, what the hell did you do this afternoon that was so great?)
Foiled by my natural urge to never interact with strangers once again.
Writing this in the backyard tonight, the first day of fall (!!), I’m wearing a sweater out of both average fashion sense and absolute necessity. I’ve got hot chocolate mix and a shit ton of ground cinnamon in my kitchen. Let’s do this fall.
Despite my inexplicable but extremely real hatred of Halloween, I still love the fuck out of fall, the clear Best Season. I moved to New York in October 2011 and it took me no time to fall deeply in love with this city. The air gets crisp, the subway smells better, and people put their clothes back on (by and large a good thing.) And this year, the first day of fall serves as a reminder that I’ve only got about a month of my 20s left.
So I’m gonna go watch TV.