One Day At A Time — But, not yet!

I decided to quit drinking for thirty days. Starting tomorrow.

While in Albuquerque, I shopped at a local liquor store. Jubilations! It’s a landmark. I walked in the door and was immediately overwhelmed by the vast selection of everything alcohol. A store employee asked if he could be of assistance.

“I usually drink a heavy red like Malbec, but I’m up for a change.”

He went to the Chilean section and held up a bottle with a plain beige label. I would never have chosen it.

“Lost grapes!”

The employee proceeded to tell me the entire history of the Carmenere grape and how it was lost and then found in Chile.

Talk about personal service and more information than I could possibly remember. I purchased the bottle, but didn’t open it until yesterday.

All I can say is … more please.

I’m not going to quit drinking until I finish the bottle of organic, sustainably farmed, deliciousness.

My relationship with alcohol began invitro. Yes, I was a heavy drinker as an embryo. Mothers in the 1950’s did not stop drinking, smoking, or anything else while they were pregnant.

My parents were card carrying members of the tumbler generation. Needless to say, my siblings and I dealt with the fall out of alcoholism our entire childhood. But that did not stop us from having a drink or two along the way.

When I was born, my parents lived on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in the middle of nowhere. Kyle, South Dakota was the nearest town. My teenaged mom was at a loss as to how to prevent me, her first born, from screaming my head off twenty-three hours a day. An Indian midwife came to the rescue with cat nip tea, and a great idea. A tablespoon or two of whiskey in my baby formula. An entirely different brand of mother’s milk. My grandmother was a Black Velvet fan. I became a boozehound at two weeks old.

Holiday celebrations in my extended family were based around poker games, smoke filled rooms, and lots of drinking. This of course, lead to outbursts of cussing and yelling. Once or twice it resulted in some chair throwing. But, it was all in good fun.

As kids, my cousins and I would sneak around sampling various abandoned cans, bottles, and glasses. The younger ones got wasted and fell asleep in a heap on the floor, in the garage, and outside on the front steps.

My family did attend Catholic Mass together before the festivities. Amen!

At the end of the raucous gathering, everyone would pile into their 1955 Ford Fairlane or Chevy pickup and drive like a bat out of hell on rough country roads and isolated byways.

The driver of my vehicle (good ole dad) was intoxicated, and none of us kids ever clicked a seatbelt. The four of us bounced around the back seat like pin balls in an arcade. Amen again! (Maybe mandatory mass was a good thing?)

Family is family.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcPi_bOk2-4

Eventually the family moved off the rez and into town.

As teenagers, my sisters and I threw epic parties at our house. For example, a kid rode his dirt bike up the stairs to the second story. And down, right out the front door, and off the porch.

Our favorite trick was to mark the collection of liquor bottles in the cabinet, take what we wanted, refill to the mark with water, and then replace the bottles in the exact spot we found them. We were unsupervised as our parents were on their own self-destructive journey.

I did get arrested for minor in possession of a six pack of Bud. Bud for god’s sake? That’s the most embarrassing part of the story. It happened right after I graduated from high school and was waiting to turn eighteen so I could leave town. My plan was to join the Navy.

In small town Nebraska, in 1973 there was the possibility of a judge saying, “get the hell out of here!” instead of sentencing me to juvy, foster care, or worse.

“I’m leaving forever right after my eighteenth birthday.” I was contrite. And, scared. I didn’t want to be stuck in my home town for one minute longer than I planned.

“Try to stay out of trouble until then.” He shook his finger at me.

I did join the Navy. I did meet a guy and get married. I did go to college. I did have children. I was a busy young woman and I thought wine was for people with time and money to waste.

Footnote: I did not have alcohol in my home the entire time my children were growing up. I felt they might be genetic time bombs. However, that did not stop them from taking a drink or three along the way.

I moved to Maui, I befriended a retired physician and his wife. They had happy hour each afternoon at 4:30 p.m. complete with pupus and often invited me over to share a glass of champagne. We rated the bubbles, the flavor, the color. How civilized.

A year after I moved to Hawaii, I met a guy who introduced me to dirty martini’s. My mantra was, “one is good, two is better, three makes me wonder why I thought that was a good idea.”

I didn't get arrested. I did get stopped on a sobriety checkpoint. I was wearing scrubs from Maui Memorial Hospital, (another blog) and the cop waved me through. I shot him a shaka. And, drove home holding my breath — under the influence.

Happy hour became a regular ritual. Colleagues, neighbors, friends, and strangers. It was a social outlet after work, paddle boarding, hiking, or on the beach at sunset.

I moved to the Czech Republic for a year. I taught for James Cook Languages. That is where I learned to be a beer connoisseur. The Czechs think they invented the brew. So do the Germans. Half of Europe wants the credit for beer.

My tolerance to alcohol moved to a completely different level. A popular medicinal beverage was Becherovka. It was developed by Dr. Becher as a spa drink in Karlovy Vary. My adult students told me to stay away from doctors and dentists.

“Drink Becherovka. It’s a cure for everything.”

They were right. I have a bottle in my freezer for emergencies.

I moved to Flagstaff and went to the Green Room with two colleagues and their spouses on a Friday evening. I had one beer. That’s all I remember. I woke up the next morning fully clothed in my own bed. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t stand up. Around noon my colleague called. “Are you okay?”

“No. What happened to me? How did I get home?” I was feeling better.

“I took you home. You had one beer and checked out. You were conscious but not there.”

The next day I was back to normal. I had been roofied. I believe it was an accident. The date raped drug was meant for someone else. Luckily, I was with people who were not going to do terrible things. I took one for the team.

The irony of that event, was I had lived and traveled around Europe alone. Been to more than a few pubs, drank more than a few beers. And, I get roofied in Flagstaff? With my colleagues at the table?

The pandemic shifted my social drinking to solo drinking. I’m not a heavy drinker but I am a daily drinker. Alcohol insidiously became part of my routine. I’ve become someone with time and money to waste. A wino.

One reason to challenge myself to thirty days without a single drink is I can’t lose the tire around my waist. At age 65, that type of fat is dangerous to my heart and linked to increased risk of dementia.

Turns out that wine belly is a real thing. The health benefits of drinking wine have been touted in the media. Red wine has been made out to be less harmful than it is. Shocking.

I’m willing to eliminate alcohol completely for 30 days to see if I can tell a difference in my weight and my overall wellbeing.

I’ve been watching you tube videos about what happens when people take a break from drinking alcohol. One of the tubers lost eleven pounds in one month and he said his “thought process had never been so clear.” (Yes, he’s twenty something, not sixty something.)

Honestly, I will miss my wine time. Alcohol has been with me since conception. Mine.

As a woman of a certain vintage, what the hell am I going to do with all that time and money?

What was the question again?

One day at a time. Starting tomorrow.

I won’t be drinking to that.