Please

Please

On the Wagon

20 October 2005
Filed under Life, Text

I’ve just finished an alcohol-free month ‚Äì certainly my first extended period off the booze in ten or twelve years ‚Äì and, in the manner of the saved, feel an irrepressible desire to rub it in. That’s not to say that I won’t immediately resume my hard-drinking ways (although I do plan to practice some moderation, at least up until Christmas), but anybody who tells you that alcohol does you no harm* is selling something ‚Äì probably beer.

A week into my fast, I started magically waking up at about 6.30am; a week after that I started actually getting out of bed around 7, a good hour-and-a-half earlier than usual. I’ve been extraordinarly productive at work, and going to the gym hasn’t been the unadulterated torture I’ve found it in the past. (Unfortunately for those sensing a reformed character, I’m still a lesbian, I still believe in a woman’s right to choose, and the Government’s new IR legislation sucks even harder in the cold, sober light of day.)

Like many people, I suspect, my need for alcohol is a largely symbolic one: like popcorn (or choc-tops) at the cinema, there are Certain Times when a drink is required. For example, I reckon I’ve had a drink, or at least part of one, on every AFL Grand Final Day since I was ten, with the possible dubious exception of 1989, when I watched the game from a hotel room in Jerusalem while that city’s inhabitants were celebrating the Jewish New Year by not drinking anything. If anyone needed a drink that day, it was a Geelong supporter in a foreign land, even if she WAS only eleven. This year, I ate saveloys and party-pies; I explained the holding-the-ball rule to a clutch of ill-educated Canberrans; I swore at Robert Walls; I held my breath through most of the final quarter; but not a drop of alcohol passed my lips. Such is the weight of symbolism attached to a Grand Final Day beer that not having one felt like having my soul ripped out of my body. Seriously. And I don’t even like beer.

This kind of drinking wouldn’t be a problem if there weren’t so many occasions on which this symbolic requirement for the consumption of alcohol exists. Not drinking in these circumstances usually requires a formal explanation: Friday night after-work drinks, dinner out with friends, weddings, parties, opening night at the theatre, after-work business meetings, and some lunchtime business meetings. Then there are the occasions that it’s almost impossible to get through without a drink - like intimidating dinner parties for twenty people at which you’re on ‘hello’ terms with exactly three people, and everyone else is a) ten years older than you, b) important and senior in your field of work, c) drunk or d) all of the above.

All of this makes it a freaking miracle that I got through the month unscathed ‚Äì now to set about repairing the social networks I’ve damaged by not adhering to the Secret Code of Late-Twenties Social Alcoholism for all this time.

* I also recognise - and in fact lovingly cling to - the idea that wine (in particular) is GOOD for your heart in, ahem, moderation.

Views from the Floor

Peter says:

One should never watch important football games with people who don't understand football. Indeed, you should only talk to them in absolute emergencies.

But welcome back to the booze. You're cool again.

kate says:

I was compelled, when I was about 23, to give up the booze for 6 months. It's very very strange to feel stone cold sober when leaving a gig at the Corner.

I discovered that the world doesn't get blurry by itself after 6pm. Who knew?

Speak, friend, and enter


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