A Sobering Tale

When I was a child I hated November. I'm not sure why, but it probably had something to do with the unbearably long wait until the much-hyped Christmas presents and two-week break from school finally arrived. But in my thirtieth year, things have changed. Now I hate October, and I know exactly why: because I haven't touched a drop of alcohol in thirty-one days.

That's right--I had a Sober October. I wish I could take credit for the idea or the clever name, but it's actually the brainchild of Kate Buenaflor, co-owner of the Soft Spot Bar on Bedford Ave., and manager of my softball team the Soft Spot Specials. When I first learned of her plans, I was shocked: was the woman who brought five-gallon jugs of tequila-laced Gatorade to our dugout really going to lay off the sauce for an entire month?

You'd better believe it. Kate does it every year, and by this point (four years in) she's recruited a small army of followers. Any other October, I probably would have agreed that it was a worthwhile pursuit (for crazy people) and ordered another beer. This particular October, however, followed one of the most sodden summers I can remember since getting my fake ID freshman year, and I was ready for a break.

Between the months of June and September I had a wedding (mine), a restaurant/bar opening (my new husband's), a parental visit, and two softball teams--one of which is obviously sponsored by a bar, and another (the True Foes) which may as well be. By the time autumn arrived, my liver was pickled, my tongue was permanently fuzzy, and I'd lost count of how many hangovers I'd had (it's hard to use a calculator when your hands won't stop shaking).

So when I heard about Sober October I decided to jump on the bandwagon, and to stay on the wagon until all hell broke loose (in other words, until midnight on Halloween). How hard could it be?

Week One: Feeling fantastic. On top of the world! I am a paradigm of healthy living, and I pity the fools who willingly pollute their bodies with that vile substance known as alcohol.

Week Two: Still pretty pleased with myself. Mornings are certainly much easier than they used to be, but evenings are another story. I start to plot ways around my abstemious vow: after all, if I just have one glass of wine, then technically I'm still sober, right? I console myself with the knowledge that I'm halfway through, grit my teeth, and soldier on.

Week Three: I start giving my innocent husband dirty looks for having a beer with dinner. I shun bars and social invitations. I buy a bottle of sparkling apple cider from Key Foods and drink it out of a wineglass while watching Sex and the City reruns. Alone.

Week Four: Vacationing family in town. I play the chipper tour guide and graciously accept congratulations for sticking with it till the end, while my relatives knock back beers at a sidewalk cafe. I've never wanted a drink so badly in my life. I deserve a medal for this shit. I'm counting the days. All right, I'm counting the hours. Why has time suddenly come to a screeching halt?

The moral of the story: With less than 24 hours until I'm free to make a drunken idiot out of myself, I suddenly feel calm. Why was I so anxious for the month to end? After all, it's not like they're going to stop making booze. It'll always be there. I'm very much looking forward to drinking again, but I'm also looking forward to thinking before (and hopefully while) I drink, so I can stop before the slobbering and stumbling start. I value this experience, but I'm reluctant to repeat it. In the future, if I feel like I need to dry out a little, I'll just have a teetotal week or weekend.

What is it they say about the best-laid plans?

Regardless of whether or not my drinking habits show real improvement going forward, there is one guaranteed reward for my Sober October: the return of the two-beer tipsiness! Dumpling, I'm a cheap date!

Happy Halloween, and...what's that word again? Oh yeah, Cheers!