Parched

It is just over three weeks since I blogged to announce the commencement of my dry month, and I’m proud to confirm that as yet I have upheld my vow to stay sober.

I have to admit that as I embarked upon this challenge, fuelled by a particularly vicious hangover and an excess of incumbent junk food, I was unsure I’d make it myself (I am aware there is still just over a week to incur failure).  If I’m honest it’s probably only my own sheer pig-headedness that’s seen me through.  The fact that I had told people about the challenge I’d set myself (received sometimes with surprise, but more often with contempt (‘gay!’) or scepticism), I think has had the most significant contribution toward my success than anything.  I had made the decision that I would refrain from alcohol for a month and by Jove, refrain from alcohol I would do.  Even when a weary barmaid handed me a JD and coke (coincidently my drink of choice), when in fact I had ordered an innocent Diet Coke nearing 4am - ho yes, hard-core is my middle name - I promptly slid the glass back across the bar and asked for the order to be amended.  It took more than three attempts to communicate the error, and when she finally deciphered that the drink contained alcohol and I would like this element to be removed, she looked at me as though I’d sprouted a third boob.  

You may as well know that when I drink, I am a talker.  Shocking, eh?  Before I started this challenge, I used to find myself worrying immensely the morning after I had been drinking.  I would wake suddenly – as you do after a heavy night – and my first thought would be ‘right, what happened’.  I would proceed to spend the entire morning remembering everything I could from the period during which I had consumed alcohol, frantically recalling what I had been saying, what others had said, how had they acted, how had I acted, what had been my companions' facial expressions in response to the things I’d been saying.  Then I would gather my recollections into a hotbed for embarrassment and get in, wallowing in my own misfortune and imagining that everybody else would be texting and BBM-ing their disdain at my frankly unsavoury behaviour.  I’m starting to think that this may have been an overreaction.

Over the past few weeks I have been involved in a few nights out, often finding myself in scenarios where to drink would actually have been more commonplace and acceptable than to not.  On each occasion, I have found myself alone in sobriety.  Of course other people have been drinking, and I have  observed the subtle heightening of volume in their dialogue, their slowed reactions, and their loosened inhibitions, most finely demonstrated via the medium of ‘dare’ at around 2.30am (‘Laura, do you want to play dare?’ My friend propositioned, proceeding to point at an unfortunate fellow in no way subtly. ‘Go and snog that man over there.  The one with the hair.’ ‘Errr, not tonight thanks’).  Yes, my friends and family members have been drunk, they have talked rubbish, and they have chatted up unsuspecting victims in the name of keeping face, but I haven’t once judged them or scoffed at their behaviour with contempt.  I’d say in the most part I’ve been a little jealous.

Sometimes it’s fun to be tipsy. No-one is immune to the effects of alcohol, and we’ve all done silly things under the influence.  I’m not saying go wild.  If you find yourself awakening just short of the front door with your bra around your waist you’ve probably gone a little overboard.  But sometimes having a drink can be relaxing, confidence-boosting, and above all, fun.

And that is why, comfortable in the knowledge that I can refrain from alcohol should I so choose, and refreshing though this break has been, I will be counting down until next Wednesday and declaring myself very much involved with alcohol for the foreseeable future.

8 days, 2 hours, and 13 minutes to go.