A sober existence
Navigating social networks without liquid courage
In my life, I’ve always taken - to paraphrase Frost - the ‘path less traveled.’
At 57, I have never had - and will never have - a valid driver’s license.
And I haven’t had more than an occasional splash (literal splash) of wine in decades.
Let me be clear: I am not an alcoholic. As the child of an alcoholic, I have deep empathy for anyone who’s walked that path of recovery, but that wasn’t my path.
My relationship with alcohol was always going to be complicated, considering the oversized impact my father’s alcoholism had on me growing up. But ultimately, my sobriety is about no one else but me.
I had a few unpleasant nights of drinking in my twenties. One night of opening the passenger door of a moving vehicle to, um, do the ‘technicolor yawn.’ Another night on my 28th birthday, when I spent $100 at a bar and ended the night projectile vomiting under a billboard.
I learned early on that alcohol and I didn’t mix well. My father was a happy drunk, even a flirty one if a woman was around, but I was a Sad Drunk. Booze didn’t relax me, it just magnified whatever anxiety I was carrying with me at that moment.
For the most part, the absence of alcohol has never been an issue for me. It’s probably enhanced my health and my life in general.
But the shadow of alcohol does pop up every so often in my life.
I’m a pretty socially awkward person. This isn’t said to elicit sympathy or attention; at 57, I can acknowledge this is who I am. My parents were not social people, and I never really learned how to ‘people’ properly.
It’s been an interesting year for me, as I’ve mentioned in a few other posts. After several years of relative isolation, I’m trying to build new social networks and make new friends.
This is where the tricky shadow of alcohol rears its head. Because right now, it’s everywhere I look.
There are a few gatherings I’ve been attending on a monthly basis to meet neighbors, make new connections - all of them labeled as ‘happy hour.’
I live in a town where tourists visit, and where drinking is at the cornerstone of every gathering, every event. It’s a town steeped in mid-century culture, a gay version of Mad Men crossed with a gay version of The Golden Girls. But instead of cheesecake, most people in this desert mecca head out to the lanai with a cocktail in hand.
Which makes me the outlier.
How do I work around this system? I don’t have an answer, but after many years of self-consciousness about my sobriety, I’m in acceptance mode.
A few weeks back, I attended a themed bar night at a space downtown. I really envied the hey-how’s-it-going social ease that so many guys there displayed. I envied the ways that some guys were able to let down their guards.
I enjoyed myself, but that night was also a vivid reminder that I was different from most of the guys there, who were enjoying a drink (or had enjoyed some other chemical alteration before arriving).
None of this comes from a place of judgment, only the knowledge that none of it works for me.
I’m going to keep putting myself out there, raw, unfiltered and unaltered, to cultivate new connections and new friends as I always have - one friend at a time.
Making new friends is a challenge as we get older. I can count my friends on my fingers. I’m grateful for all of them.
Meanwhile, if you see me out and about, stop by and say hi. I’ll be the socially awkward guy standing around, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, with a cup of water in my hands - or maybe, if I’m feeling really fancy, some cranberry juice!