Alcohol Not Required

Recently, I dropped a few pounds. This weight loss seemed rather easy and mysterious as I hadn’t suffered through the usual mayo-less tuna on 40-calorie bread and artificial popsicles. As I mused over the possible reasons why my butt was just a little bit smaller I realized it wasn’t about the food. It was about the alcohol, or lack thereof. I had consciously cut back on my wine consumption, the result, a pant size down. 

 

 One of my favorites: full-bodied, soft on the palate and medium-priced

Other fall-out from the wine hiatus – no more clinking sound when my husband or I emptied the recycling bin. Several years ago, the tinkling sound of pretty green bottles spilling into the plastic trash receptacle was a source of amusement between me and my husband. He’d remark, in jest, of course, that he was married to a lush. Sometimes he’d just shake his head and smile as if it were “cute,” and I’d blush in apology. “It wasn’t all me, really!,” as I’d remind him of the company who visited on Saturday night. Certainly, it was they who had contributed to our musical trash. 

 So many bottles from which to choose!

When I was in my forties, I was married to someone else. This man loved his beer. As a hard-working contractor, I suppose he felt entitled to drink a 12-pack at the end of a long week. When he brought the 12-pack home, I’d fetch each bottle for him. “Can I open it for you, honey?”  I didn’t know the signs of alcoholism. For kindness’ sake, let’s refer to it as “over-drinking.”  He then began bringing home select bottles of wine, just for me. He’d discuss the purchase of these wines with the wine store owner as if he were a sommelier. One bottle came from Santa Barbara, another from Sonoma, and I was intrigued. I’d drink maybe half a bottle and take on a quiet, delightful buzz. Instantly, my ex-husband had his drinking companion for Saturday afternoons. Everyone (except me, obviously) knows that a lot of drinkers love having a drinking buddy. We’d sit on the back deck and talk; I’d deadhead the flowers in my potted plants, we’d contemplate dinner, and he’d work on his 12-pack until usually, one lone bottle was left, like an Old Maid. I’d pick it up and place it on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Then, we divorced. I packed up my share of the furniture and my  newfound love of Chardonnay and moved to Vermont, where, as I so gleefully discovered, one could buy her wine at the grocery store. No more conspicuous trips to a liquor outlet or state store. I could now purchase my cheap white table wine along with the bread, eggs and cat food. The low price was especially helpful to a newly-single woman. 

 

 Pretty green clinkers

I began working my new job at a local college. Getting into the groove of this job produced a fair amount of stress - so much to learn, so many new people with whom to contend. Nearly every evening after I got home, I’d open the bottle in the fridge and pour myself a glass. I don’t believe I was wholly preoccupied with having this glass of wine, but I drank – more than I ever had in my entire life. I loved the buttery softness, I loved the pretty labels, I enjoyed stocking an extra bottle or two in the pantry; then I began experimenting with better and pricier wines. The entire ritual became an intrinsic part of my days. When I moved in with Charlie a couple of years later, I’d have a glass of wine or two every evening while I waited for him to come home from work. I got home at 5. He didn’t arrive until 6:30. Wine and a handful of Wheat Thins, and then another glass and another handful. And the empty bottles piled up. The clinking no longer sounded like music. Instead, it sounded like the bell Sister Rose rang when it was time to stop playing in the schoolyard.  I’m pretty observant, and after many years of sipping, I understood I needed to slow down. I never over-drank. I never got drunk. But I became aware that I’d created a habit.  I began thinking about my health, my liver, my lymph system, the future of my general health. And I guess I didn’t like that my husband chuckled and shook his head when we dumped the green glass bottles into the trash. Because it wasn’t really funny.

So now, instead of two glasses of wine a day, I drink perhaps 2 or 3 glasses a week. If I wanted a glass of wine tonight, I’d probably have one. It’s strange, though, I don’t feel like it, not one little bit.