Damp
“Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.”
This past January, I did that dry January thing everyone says they are going to do. After the over-indulgence and general lushing out of December, I dried out. Well, I attempted to dry out. Okay, I became less sodden.
It’s not that January is a difficult month in which to tetotall—it’s actually kind of lovely and peaceful with its freshness and snow. The stresses of the holidays are behind us and we can reflect on the year before us without feeling like we are ruminating on the past. January functions as a kind of bridge or an oasis. Or perhaps a sanctuary where ideas & plans grow in safety until they traipse, with courage and independence, into the year.
It seemed like a good idea to take on January without the distracting attraction of alcohol. 2021 would start with a clearer head. I would cut some calories and perhaps shed a bit of holiday weight. Not buying wine would help me keep a few more bucks in my pocket. And I would look really responsible: my mother sent me a $100 Costco gift card for Christmas with the express direction to take it and buy wine. I used it to buy new glasses. See? Responsible.
I was also quite realistic about my Dry January (now it has identity so it gets capitalization) and gave myself permission to drink on three occasions through the month—one of them was already planned for January 20, Inauguration day. I knew, even before the disastrous coup attempt of Jan 6 (a day on which I did not imbibe) January 20 would be a day worthy of celebration and/or steeling of nerves. The second redemption was a scheduled party, and the last I could use as a wild card.
My sister in law and her girlfriend joined in the challenge. I had purpose, a plan, and company. Trifecta. Je Suis Prest, Jamie.
Fast-forward 1 month.
On January 31, we had an Undry January celebration and a Zoom cocktail hour (30 days is month enough). We shared an appetizer of soft pretzels and mustard with a bit of cheese that my sister-in-law delivered around to everyone before the call so we could share some of the same space—the same snack anyway—and we each opened a bottle.
In our conversation, I came to one important realization in three parts:
Going a few weeks without alcohol isn’t that beneficial.
Now, to be fair, I did cash in all three of my “Get Out of Sobriety Free” chits, so January wasn’t fully dry; it stayed a little damp. Even so, taking most of the alcohol (specifically wine) out of my monthly menu did not really improve anything.
I don’t really need to do it,
I have given up a lot of bad habits in my life, and I’ve even developed some good habits. I’ve lost, and kept off a significant (50+ pound) weight loss, I became a runner after a lifetime’s philosophical commitment to never, ever running, I gave up delicious, delicious Diet Coke (haven’t had a soda in years), and I quit smoking. I. Quit. Smoking.
and I will never do it again.
I lost more than I gained with my January tetotall-otry. I lost community, intimacy, relaxation, tradition, ritual, uninhibited messing around with my spouse, and countless conversation topics that may be interesting in themselves, but are made much more interesting with wine. I lost the one good part of adulting: having a drink.
And this is why.
Wine is candy for grown-ups.
Very quickly I decided that if I wasn’t going to drink wine, I would have a little extra dessert. Or some poor rejected Christmas candy. Or some of that Halloween candy I’d recently rediscovered stashed in the shoe cabinet in the foyer. I gave up the slightly bad practice of a few glasses of wine a week and replaced it with the really bad practice of daily candy. I pretty much just replaced a bit of wine with all the Starbursts and peppermint bark I could find.
If a party without cake is just a meeting, then a Zoom without cake or wine is just a meeting in which everyone is on mute and no one has their cameras on.
Of course, that is every Zoom—and when have you ever enjoyed a sober, sugar-free Zoom? I cashed in chit #1 for an evening that started “a poet, a professor, a philosopher, & the Old Spice Guy walk into a Zoom…” and ended with solving all the problems of higher education, as well as a couple of relationship issues. Without the shared experience of drink, I don’t think we would have been loose and inspired enough to have a conversation about race, education, work ethic, Good Queen Bess, and blow jobs at the level we did. I mean seriously, what was the last party you attended in which you took notes? We partied and have the Post-it Notes to prove it.
Campfires for the soul
What can you hold close that gives off a comforting glow and fills you with happiness? Cell phones & cocktails. On Fridays, the kids get unlimited electronics, and my husband and I open a bottle of wine. The kids get to “see” their friends—or at least their friends’ avatars—and my husband and I get to see each other. It is our time, after a week of not really being apart, but not being together either, to sit with each other again. In the corona, we inhabit the same spaces but don’t really share them. At 5pm, when the kids gather around their distractions, we snuggle up with ours.
Mocktails are mean girls
Your mocktail is pretending to be a vodka tonic but it’s really just club soda with a lime twist. It keeps whispering something you can’t hear but you can hear the ice cubes snicker. And you know what else? You can’t sit there.
Wine is patient, wine is kind
A lot of time and attention goes into creating a bottle of wine. It develops, ages, and lingers. You make it (or someone makes it) and then you have to forget about it for a while—it’s not indifference, it’s patience. Instant gratification is the end product of a long delay. Wine or a nice cocktail or a hot toddy is not something you pound back—it’s something you savor. You taste the work of it & allow its pace to affect yours.
The Golden Ticket
That glass will open up a conversation, help you survive an awkward dinner, or power you through a writing session. It’s an invitation to relax, engage, focus, and share. A glass of wine is a chance to partake in a centuries-old tradition of sunshine and rain, pleasure and pain, love and strife, isolation and solidarity.
I've had enough isolation; I need some solidarity. Sharing a drink (a real drink) is taking a risk (a real risk) when we come together in person or via Zoom. It breaks down inhibitions so you might say something you don’t mean or, even worse, you do mean.
Wine is expensive—sharing it is an act of generosity—you are giving away something you worked hard to acquire. In a stemmed goblet or a clay beaker or a paper cup, wine is the same experience. And that shared experience allows us to commune across space and time—it’s an intimacy of billions.
My damp January sobered me up enough to know that I don’t want constant sobriety, and I don’t want constant inebriation either. Substituting pleasure with mediocrity or denying myself comfort and community in a world of masks and elbows serves no purpose. This past Sunday, we undried January over the radiant heat of Zoom. With pretzels and cake, red wine and whisky, we sloshed into February, just ourselves and everyone.
