Five years ago yesterday I gave up drinking. That’s not quite accurate. Five years ago yesterday I gave up White Claw. Not the romantic way I’d hoped to end the longest love affair of my life, but nothing’s tidy or apropos in a breakup. What I’d given up before White Claw I hadn’t known I’d given up until the last White Claw was gone, and I knew there would be nothing else of anything after that.
They’re what I’d like to remember alcohol by.
Martinis with a lemon twist. Mezcal Negronis. Rye Manhattans. Vodka sodas. Gin gimlets. Fernet Branca. Prosecco. Rose. Whiskey neat, whiskey neat, whiskey neat. Aperol spritz. Scotch and water. Scotch with less water. Bourbon. Tequila. Fireball and Fernet (a.k.a. furball). Irish coffee. Mimosas. Sparkling wines. Limoncellos. Whiskey neat. I also gave up beers and sours, but those are too boring to mention.
Why White Claw?
As alluded to, it wasn’t my choice. White Claw chose for me, as well as 7-Eleven. White Claw was the most alcohol for the best price closest to home. I’d done my calculations. It wasn’t hard, actually. Near home was perhaps the greatest consideration. I didn’t want to drink and drive too terribly far. I also couldn’t manage much of life too far outside my basement. In fact, I could hardly manage that trek. I’d come back from each trip there and back feeling like a hero. I’d entered the daylight (or streetlight), entered a store with people in it who were making transactions that had rules of engagement, I’d located and grabbed and carried the necessary Claw to the counter and purchased it by the rules of engagement, I’d said thank you and left without incident, and then I drove home without having injured or scared even one person. It was an ordeal and my first drink back was always the drink of a conqueror.
Then came the counting.
You never have to count your first three drinks, of course. Unless they’re your only three (you have to count those), but in a pack of twelve or more, they’re your warm blanket, your cushion. You get to enjoy them. After that, though, you have to count. Pace might be a better word. Although, no, you’re counting. Counting down, no matter how slow. Always remembering that last number. Seven left. What time is it now? Next Claw in twenty minutes. Then a ten-minute nap, then a shotgunned Claw, then a paced Claw, twenty minutes till your next. How many then? You can’t really do anything while you’re counting, either, except maybe watch TV. Try reading a book, for instance, when you have a countdown like this going on. You have too much to keep track of. Because what’s at the bottom of this countdown? Another trip to 7-Eleven. Or worse. If you’re out of money, or if you finish between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m., then you have a whole several hours detoxifying. Shaking and crying and peeing yourself. You have to plan for what you need, even if what you need is never enough. I planned, for instance, for 4 a.m. to be my last of each day. My supply then usually lasted until 11 p.m., which meant I had just enough time to sneak out and reup before 7-Eleven’s coolers closed.
Sneak is just a word for go.
There was no sneaking in my condition. It was clear every second of every day that what I was doing I was doing for more alcohol. Always.
I do a lot less counting now. Two cups of coffee, three if I’m not shaky. Three meals: breakfast, lunch, dinner. Clip all ten fingernails, then all ten toenails. Brush your twenty-eight teeth before bed (you can do this more simply by thinking of your set of teeth as six panels; brush each side of each panel to make twelve). My steps. Actually, a voice counts my steps for me, so I have it pretty easy. More on that in another blog.
When I see a White Claw I don’t get sick. The sights and sounds of drinking are so far in my rearview I don’t worry about relapse or triggers anymore. T and I have a favorite bar, in fact, that we play cribbage in at least once a week. Every restaurant we eat in, too, we eat at the bartop. It’s what we understand. With the additional understanding that we’re sick people, even if we don’t feel sick. Maybe we’re not. It’s a bit like sitting in a library full of books you can’t read. The Old Overholts, the Patrons, the Beefeaters, Tito’s. Dusty, brittle pages we can’t turn anymore lest we break something. Embarrassed by the last book we read. Mine was White Claw. Not sure what T’s was. Probably something cool.
