I used to be a whisky drinker.
In fact, before my taste buds matured, I used to be a cocktail-with-anything-I-could-find-in-the-cupboard drinker.
I loved nothing more than a Sex on the Beach or a Lynchburg Lemonade made by a skilful mixologist using the fine art of flairing. And, of course, a glass of Prosecco on those special occasions that called for something more refined.
Then, as I reached my late twenties, my body started to reject anything alcoholic.
These days, my allergy means I am projectile vomiting within minutes of anything alcoholic passing my soon-to-be swollen lips.
I grew up in the nineties, where the ‘ladette’ culture, spearheaded by Zoe Ball and Sara Cox, normalized drinking to excess that you’d wake up the next morning with not a clue about who you snogged or what kind of dancing you did to the Britpop hits blasting in the background.
We equated being blind drunk to being ‘fun’.
And our culture, twenty-five years later, is still completely sold on the idea that alcohol is the lubricant we all need to be fun, interesting, loveable creatures. It’s no wonder then, that by default, being sober must be boring.
And who wants to be boring?
This is what I felt when I stopped drinking. A panicked notion that my friends only really liked me because of the person I was when I was drunk.
I am naturally quite shy, only really coming into myself during those late teen years when a drop of Jack Daniels would allow me to shake off that muzzle of fear that everytime I would open my mouth I’d say something stupid.
I was granted a new lease of life. One that saw me popular and attractive.
I know now that this confidence didn’t come with alcohol, it came with out-growing those awkward teen years that everyone goes through. But back then I was in cahoots with the ladette way of life to give me confidence and with it, a sense of fun.
Fast forward to nowadays and I can see why. A simple shake of the head to wine with dinner or asking for my cocktail to become a mocktail had people looking at me as though I had two heads. And when I explain to the serving staff that I’m allergic to alcohol it’s as though it’s a fate worse than death.
In fact, on more than one occasion, they have voiced this out loud, as though I’m not sitting there in front of them with the very affliction they couldn’t bear to live with.
I found myself laughing alongside them, adding in quickly don’t worry, I’m still lots of fun, as though without the crutch of a Cosmopolitan I couldn’t possibly be someone they’d want to be around.
I went out of my way to prove I was still fun but, after time, I realised I didn’t need to.
No-one was friends with me because of who I was when I was drunk. They were friends with me because of who I am, period.
The clarity that came with not being hammered meant that when I was out out (back in the days that was allowed) I was able to fully engage with what was going on because I was present in the moment.
I realised I could dance without the fear of feeling stupid, I could hold a conversation without the fear of saying the wrong thing. I learned more about myself and liked what I learnt.
Over time, I let go of the notion that I needed to be drunk in order to have a good time.
And I stopped seeing all of my past drunken nights out with rose-tinted glasses (or beer goggles). I took control of my own fun, instead of having to consume it through drink.
It’s not that I think alcohol is a bad thing; with New Year about to hit, and with the apocalyptic year of 2020 almost behind us, there’s nothing I’d like more than to raise a glass of fizz in toast to the start of new beginnings.
But I have come to accept that I will no longer be able to do this, and that is okay.
With Dry January coming up, if you’re thinking about partaking, try not to get in the spiral of thoughts that being sober is no fun.
Instead realign your thoughts to positivity; people want to spend time with you and you are fun no matter what you’re consuming.
