Not Drinking Not Hard?

This marks Day 16 of my alcohol-free existence. I haven’t mentioned the tally lately because I’ve started to feel like some kind of fraud. No, not because I’ve been circumventing my abstinence by making meals with heavy doses of undiluted alcohol or sneaking nips of Tom’s Jack Daniels for “medicinal purposes.” (Neither of which have I ever done.) I have not had one single molecule of alcohol since I woke to find the majority of my delightfully-highlighted hair matted to the side of my head by copious amounts of my own blood.

When I tout my amazing accomplishment of staying sober, it seems as if it should have actually been a challenge, which thus far has not been the case. In reading stories of other people’s alcoholism, they frequently say that each and every day is a constant battle to resist temptation, and I have not even come close to having a drink. Saying that I’ve somehow avoided some great danger feels disingenuous. It’s like the Minnesota Bureau of Tourism proudly promoting the stunning lack of shark attacks here. Not exactly in the high-risk zone, you know?

The only slight temptation I’ve faced was last weekend when we went out to lunch. Walking by the bar, I felt a faint tug in the direction of the House Merlot, but it was as easy to brush off as a cigarette ash on my jacket. (Not the kind that’s still burning and making yet another burn-hole in my salmon-colored micro suede zip-up hoodie. Those are significantly more challenging.) The disappointment over not having that wine was comparable to forgoing an appetizer because you are short on time or cash. Yeah, for a second you think how much you’d have enjoyed that bruschetta, but in the scheme of things it’s so inconsequential that it barely registers.

I know I will face tougher challenges. Being someone with a high degree of social anxiety, any sort of human interaction has always been difficult. I am aware that I have used alcohol to mask my nervousness so that I might resemble a normal human being in these (supposedly) nonthreatening situations. However, I never mastered the skill of drinking merely to the point of attaining social functionality. I always had one more drink than anyone else present, and instead of matching their normal level of relaxed interaction, I became the one who talked too loudly, shared a bit too much, and was somewhat unsteady on her spiky-heeled boots when it came time to depart.

Two other potential challenges are vacations and concerts. Next month I will be facing both of these simultaneously. It’s easy to grant yourself permission to drink on vacation, because we all know that vacations technically exist outside the boundaries of reality. Especially in Las Vegas. That place is one giant, never-ending party. One’s blood alcohol probably jumps to 0.05 merely by getting off the plane.

On our second night there we will be attending a Styx concert at the House of Blues. No, I am not a “stuck in the 80s” girl, of either the Preppie or Valley Girl variety. But Styx was the first concert I ever attended, for my 13^th birthday back in 1978. I also saw them last year when I was in Vegas, as they were the “free concert event” sponsored by a veterinary pharmaceutical company for conference attendees. I managed, in my stealthy way, to slither through the crowd to the side of the stage, and was rewarded with both a guitar pick and a logo-printed hand towel.

Honestly, I’ve never seen the point of attending a concert unless I can be right up front, which is why I never attend stadium shows. Might as well stay home, save an assload of money, and watch it on DVD. (As long as Tom is there to operate the multiple, many-buttoned, slightly terrifying remote controls.) However, the two glasses of wine I consumed at last year’s Styx concert cost $11 each, which is several dollars more than I usually spend on an entire bottle, so I figure having limited financial resources will help me dodge that particular retro-music bullet.

Perhaps my biggest challenge is something that is so far not on my calendar, or even on the distant horizon. We love the band Cross Canadian Ragweed. They are the best live band in this or any other universe, bar none.

This is how a typical Ragweed Concert Experience tends to unfold. The concert date is announced, and we immediately order tickets. Yes, they are general admission, and we could theoretically purchase them at the ticket office moments before the doors open. This, however, would cause me far too much anxiety. I need that ticket, and I need it now. I carefully Mapquest the concert venue and begin worrying about what to wear. We send in and subsequently confirm our meet and greet passes. (Fan club membership has its privileges.) I watch the website daily, just in case disaster strikes and the show is postponed or (Noooooo....!!!!!) canceled. Vacation days are requested, because it is unthinkable that I would have to actually concentrate at work the day of a Ragweed concert, and there’s no way I’ll be able to work the next day, mainly because I will still be partially deaf, and my vocal cords will not yet have regained the ability to function normally. After the last concert, my hands were so swollen the next day that I had to remove all my jewelry to avoid gangrene due to the lack of circulation. I have no idea why.

On the day of the concert, we arrive at least three hours before the doors open. This allows time to check out the venue, make sure we know where we will be entering, and the shortest possible route to the stage. Tom is crucial for this, because he’s great at chatting up the security staff and getting the inside scoop on the expected procedure, as well as possible short-cuts. Fortunately, he loves the band as much as I do, and is willing to make the effort. Then we go somewhere nearby for dinner. The restaurant must be very nearby, because we prefer to be able to see the door of the concert venue. Nobody must be permitted to get in line ahead of us. During dinner, I consume several glasses of wine, for reasons that will become clear momentarily.

Following dinner, we make our way (in my case somewhat unsteadily) to the doors, at least an hour before anyone will be allowed in. We must be first. Our devotion to the band demands it. We’ve stood in bitter cold and raging summer storms, undaunted by threats of frostbite or lightning strikes. When the doors finally open, we rush forward, Tom’s old football skills being employed if necessary, and station ourselves right against the center of the stage. This is the only acceptable location.

Tom, being more assertive (and stronger) than I am, will make a couple of trips to the bar before the show begins, so that my blood alcohol level does not slip below acceptable concert levels. I am, when not at least partially inebriated, what can only be referred to as an extremely up-tight person. A Ragweed concert, though, requires a relaxed and uninhibited attitude. Hence the alcohol. A couple more drinks, and I stop worrying about everything and just immerse myself in the wonderful experience that is Cross Canadian Ragweed. I stand, literally at the feet of the spectacular Cody Canada. Estrogen, pheromones, and endorphins flood my middle-aged body. I kick off my shoes and lean on the stage, dancing, singing and screaming throughout the show. Cody himself is mere inches away, so close I could play his guitar if I reached out (and if I could, in fact, play the guitar, which I can’t). I never do that, though, because touching would be rude and intrusive, would piss off my husband, and Bodyguard Bert would object to such a breach of etiquette and remove me bodily from the area. He’s a very nice guy, but also very large, and although I have seen footage of him wearing a Speedo with ice dumped down the back, resulting in a nearly unobstructed view of his ass, he’s still not someone to annoy.

By now, the alcohol supply has been cut off, because neither Tom nor I will vacate our spot at the stage to go to the bar and risk not being able to get back through the crowd. However, the band is happily consuming beer and shots, and Cody frequently has a cigarette stuck under the strings of his guitar. Actually, by that point I probably want a cigarette more than a drink, and have at times briefly considered taking Cody down just for a hit of nicotine. The Tom/Bert threat has thus far kept me in line. Oh, and Cody’s wife, Shannon, who I am positive could seriously kick my ass, and would not hesitate to do so.

Cross Canadian Ragweed also hosts a cruise every summer, known as the CCRuise. We’ve toyed with the idea of going a couple of times, but were giving it more serious consideration this year. Now, though, I’m thinking we should stick with “cabin in the woods” instead, because I have seen the DVD of last year’s CCRuise and it appears to me that large amounts of alcohol may, in fact, be mandatory. Plus, I have to consider the fact that I would probably (“definitely”) feel compelled to know Cody’s whereabouts at all times, and place myself inconspicuously in the area so that I could observe him continually. Some, including my husband, would consider this stalking. I beg to differ. Still, it probably would not contribute to a relaxing vacation experience, especially without alcohol.

These will be the major challenges to my sobriety. Since I have yet to face (and conquer) any of them, I feel that I haven’t earned the right to be particularly proud of staying alcohol-free for a mere 16 days. Most of that time I’ve been working, reading, writing, dog-wrangling, or handling the other odds and ends of daily life. I don’t want to insult those who find each day a nearly incomprehensible struggle to stay sober, or in any way compare my situation with theirs.

But by the same token, I don’t want to put my own frequently delusional brain in a position where it can trick me into believing that I am not, in fact, an alcoholic. I understand that my alcoholism just manifests differently than many other alcoholics’. Not drinking isn’t what’s hard. Stopping once I start is where I screw up. Mainly, I have to run completely out of alcohol, pass out, or inflict serious physical injury upon myself. Sound like an alcoholic to you? Yeah, me too.

Perhaps I should write to Cody and explain my dilemma. Then he would invite us to the Austin, Texas area, so we could attend three or four consecutive concerts at which I would I remain completely sober. Only then would I have earned the right to brag about my accomplishment. He’d fall for that, right? On the other hand, he’d probably offer me a glass of something delightfully alcoholic, and mesmerized by his numerous charms, I’d slug it down before I remembered that I no longer drink, and subsequently take a header into Randy’s drum set.

So I’m thinking I’d better get a few more months of not drinking under my belt before I write to the Ragweed guys.

Us with Cross Canadian Ragweed. Left to right, Grady Cross (rhythm guitar), Randy Ragsdale (percussion), Me, Tom, Cody Canada (lead vocals, lead guitar, songwriter), and Jeremy Plato (bass). Notice how Tom has strategically placed himself between me and Cody. NOT that we hadn't just spent a half hour chatting with them in a private meet and greet, but in his book you just can't be too careful.