Is Not Drinking a Problem for You?

A week ago, I never would’ve told you that I had a problem with not drinking. I wasn’t one of those people who got messy, cracking open another LaCroix and failing to hide their burps behind a hand. My sobriety had never caused me to commit a social faux pas, like asking friends if I could contribute less to a bill since I’d ordered only a mint tea.

As many revelations do, mine began with an online quiz. I was sitting on the couch, listening to the fizz of my kombucha on the coffee table. Do you look forward to your first nonalcoholic drink of the day? I kept scrolling, trying not to think about last Friday at 4 P.M., when a “quick turnaround” e-mail appeared in my in-box and I longed for the instant release of my first sip of tarragon-infused sparkling water. I scrolled back up. Does not drinking interfere with your relationships? I couldn’t help but remember my sister asking on Saturday night if she could open a beer, her toddler propped on her hip, or the friends who I now hang out with only in the context of movie-watching, so that we don’t have to make sober conversation.

“Whatever,” I told myself. “If my friends and family don’t want to not drink with me, that’s on them.” But then I swiped to the next question: Do you feel comfortable only when spending time with people who aren’t drinking? And I had to admit to feeling “seen,” which, honestly, really made me want a Shirley Temple.

Does not drinking make you feel more attractive, hopeful, and alive? I didn’t see what was so wrong with that. I work hard all week (and weekend, too), and I have so few other vices. What’s a couple of weekend N.A. beers and the absolute confidence that the people you are talking to won’t remember your jokes anyway? What’s a few virgin mojitos and glances at yourself in the mirror above the bar, knowing that you’re not worsening the circles under your gorgeous eyes? Don’t you deserve to sip a mocktail, giddy with the realization that you’re making better choices than everyone else in the room?

With every gulp of my bitters-and-soda, I know that tomorrow I will stroll through a flea market with a light head and a clearer conscience. With every whiff of my ginger-and-juice, I grow more confident in the future of our planet and in my abilities, especially those of my liver. With every water refill, I feel more whole.

Does not drinking give your life purpose? “Shit,” I thought, remembering white-knuckling my way through a bread basket and drinking a Diet Coke on ice as family members enjoyed their wine and conversation. In the rideshare home, bleary with exhaustion, another night gone—and for what?—I reminded myself, “Well, at least I can not drink,” as I ignored the driver’s stare in the rearview mirror and tipped my Hydro Flask to my lips, sipping water that I couldn’t even taste anymore.

I darkened the screen of my phone, comments from loved ones ringing through my mind. “You were more fun when you didn’t not-drink.” “Remember when you got an adult skateboard as a gift and spent Christmas Eve skateboarding back and forth on our street, refusing to give anyone else a turn?” “Remember when we held hands as we leaned over the railing of the B.Q.E. and threw up onto cars below, promising each other that we would always be roommates?” “Think of all the downsides to not drinking: the money you put into retirement, when you won’t be able to enjoy it; the weekend mornings when you wake up at seven, refreshed but alone.” “Is not drinking more important than us?” And I dropped my phone and leaned back against the couch, my eyes filling with tears as I realized just how sick I had become.

I reached for my kombucha on the coffee table—but no, I thought, stopping my hand halfway. I was done with all that. I was done! I would pour all my non-drinks down the sink! Well, maybe not all of them. They were expensive, and I’d want to keep a few around in case any not-drinking guests came over. I wouldn’t judge. God knows, I wasn’t one to criticize anyone for not drinking.

“Am I making up excuses?” I wondered as I stood, the cool jar of kombucha in my hand, smelling of lightly fermented raspberry, beckoning me. The quiz might say that I was.

But how reliable were online quizzes, really? I raised the jar to my lips and took just one sip. And then another, revelling in the refreshment of sobriety—yes, for the last time. Or maybe I was being too extreme. I shouldn’t rush into anything. Maybe I should start with a Drinking January.

But, for now, it was May. I took another sip. ♦