I survived my first sober vacation

In my former drinking days, vacations involved do not disturb signs on the door until at least 11 a.m., bloody mary breakfasts with large sunglasses, and an excuse to drink at every meal.  To you know, enjoy everything to its fullest.  I thought paradise should be experienced in state of constant euphoria, and trying to chase that perfect buzz somewhere attained between the third and fourth drink was on the travel itinerary everyday.  From the first cocktail on the plane to the pool side umbrella drinks, different sized glasses were in hand to savor every segment of the trip.  Mimosas in champagne flutes for brunch by the beach, a chilled glass of Chardonnay to savor the sunsets, and shot glasses to close down the hotel lounge.

To keep up appearances that these vacations weren’t just all out benders, I would attempt go on tours and take photographs to prove that I actually went somewhere.  But of course, the vacation itinerary was always flexible to allow for hangovers, and no excursions were pre-paid unless they began in the afternoon.

So when my mom and I purchased our non-refundable tickets to Maui in my third month of sobriety, I feared relapsing  during the trip.  How could I possibly be strong for seven days straight surrounded by alcohol?  But somewhere between booking the trip and arriving in Hawaii two months later, I was transitioning from fearing a relapse to actually enjoying sobriety.   I was beginning to see what all the years of drinking had robbed me of, which was actually living my life and being present.  I hadn’t savored anything by getting numb, and I had squandered opportunities to see and experience the beauty of my travels.

It was with this new appreciation for life that I had the best vacation of my life; sober.

Kanaapali, Hawaii was an excellent spot for my first sober vacation.  It was expensive, but since I wasn’t drinking all day, every day I had some wiggle room in my budget.  My mom and I chose the Westin Beach Resort and Spa because of the pools and water-slides for my son.  It was a family friendly resort with little kids running around everywhere.  Of course the hotel had happy hours, and people were drinking.

I’m grateful that I went to Maui sober.  I felt that I finally fit into the “normal” family club.  It wasn’t like I sat around the pool, chatting up other moms about their kids extracurricular activities.  It was just the lack of embarrassment and shame.  I also didn’t see anyone drunk, and I didn’t feel left out for not drinking.  For once, I felt that I belonged because this time I was in control.

If I was still drinking,  I would have been the boozy mom laughing or talking too loud, and stumbling around the pool.  I probably would have gotten some disapproving looks from parents, who questioned my ability to supervise my son.  Or avoiding eye contact with hotel staff, who saw me stumbling down the hall to my room, or unable to get the key into the door.  Mornings would have involved arguing with my son, because he would have been impatient with me sleeping my hangover off.

But these things didn’t happen, and didn’t have to expend any energy worrying about them.  Instead, I taught my son how to snorkel for free on a public beach.  First we saw yellow tangs and triggerfish, but then we saw a giant sea turtle for several minutes.  It was a moment of grace, and I got to share it with my son.  And he recognized and appreciated it.  This is the type of euphoria that cannot be imbibed, and I am so grateful that I didn’t miss it because I had the do not disturb sign on.

 

Lunch with a former drinking buddy

I had ninety seven days of sobriety when I met Mel for lunch.  I hadn’t seen her for three and a half years since I quit my job.   And a lot had happened in those three and a half years.  I had gone through a divorce, and her husband had died.

As I was driving to her house, I smiled and thought of all the laughs we had at Red’s; the bar across the street from our job.  I lit a cigarette, and turned up the radio.  The thought crossed my mind that I could have a beer with her, and no one in my newly formed sober circle would have to know.  Mel didn’t know that I had quit drinking, and she hadn’t seen how bad I got after my divorce.  I pushed the craving away by thinking of my son, and how I used to struggle to open my eyes when he would wake me up to turn on his Saturday morning cartoons.

As I pulled in front of her house, I noticed her husband’s truck was still in the driveway.  It had been a year since he passed, and I knew she could use the money from selling it.  But there it was; the first reminder that he wouldn’t be coming home.

Mel was close to my mom’s age, but she had never treated me like a kid.  When I first met her 10 years ago, I was thirty and she was fifty-five.  I was the youngest person in the office but she was the most immature.  Two weeks after I started I caught her standing on her office chair to shoot a rubber band over her cubicle at another co-worker.  It was the first time she made me laugh so hard that I snorted and tears rolled down my face.

I honked the horn and I saw her look through and wave out the front window.  I got out of my truck and hugged her.  The shirt she wore was baggy, but I could feel her ribs.  We laughed about each other’s hair.  She had quit dyeing hers and let it go grey, and I had quit paying a lot of money to achieve the perfect light brown with hair dressers and now had a box blonde shade that wasn’t too brassy.

As I drove to the Mexican restaurant, we gossiped about co-workers. Mel filled me in on who had retired, died, had babies, and finally the juicy stuff on who was having affairs.  It wasn’t until I was half way through my enchilada and she was almost done with her margarita, did she finally ask why I had got a divorce.

I had practice on explaining this succinctly, and in under five minutes told her how I fell out of love with my husband because he kept loosing his jobs and I had become more like his mother than his wife.  She had understood, she had supported a man like that and knew how just how tired you could get from working full time, raising a child, and raising a husband could be.

I didn’t ask about her husband.  I didn’t want to make her cry in public if she wasn’t ready to talk about it.  But she ordered another margarita, and asked if I was going to have one.  I just said “no, I’m not drinking.”  Right now it was about her and her grief, not about my sobriety.

After her second margarita came, Mel told me how her husband slipped away in the middle of the night.  The doctors at the VA weren’t treating his COPD, but were just managing his pain with morphine.  They hadn’t even given him oxygen.  That day was like any other, there was no complaints about feeling bad or weird, no concerns on whether he should go to the hospital, no disruptions to their day.  They went to bed like normal, and when she got up to pee in the middle of the night he was already cold and blue.

We sat at the table for another thirty minutes, and talked about the shock and grief.  How she had to get her State Senator involved to get the VA to release his death certificate after two weeks so she could bury him.  Then how she had to take a second mortgage and rent some of his property to make ends meet.  We paid the check and got into my car.  I lit a cigarette and pulled away from the restaurant.  I noticed that she didn’t light one with me.

“Are you not smoking, Mel?”

“No, I haven’t had one in seven months.  I have stage three kidney disease, and I also have to wear an oxygen mask at night.”

“I’m so proud of you.  Congratulations!”

I continue to drive smoking my cigarette.  I wish I could say that I put it out in support of her.  But I desperately needed one, after not being able to join her in having margaritas.

We pull up to her house, and she invites me in.  I can tell she cleaned for me today.  Her house smells like Lysol and vanilla candles.  We walk into her kitchen, and I see two fifths and a bottle of wine.  The wine is for me, and the whiskey is for her.

We sit on her couch and start to laugh about the old times.  In the middle of telling a story, I have a coughing fit.  She offers me some brandy; its what she gave her husband when he would cough.  I can barely talk, but I manage to get out that I needed water.  She brings the glass of water to me, and has a glass of whiskey for herself.

As I drink my water and try to regain my breath and my voice, Mel tells me she is retiring this summer.  Her sixty-fifth birthday is this August, and her family is going to have a full out bash for her and her twin sister, and to celebrate her retirement.

I congratulate her, and ask about the party.  I then ask what she’s going to do after she retires.  Hobbies?  Travel?  None of that, just relief that she doesn’t have to wake up to an alarm clock anymore or answer to anyone.

This scares me.  When my mother retired she went from a heavy drinker to a full blown, drink every day, alcoholic.  She was forced to quit when was hospitalized with pancreatitis, and a prognosis of a year to live if she continued to drink.  I also went to a former co-worker’s funeral a year and a half after she retired.  She had drank herself to death, and the rumors at the wake were that they found a closet full of empty boxes of Franzia.

I change the subject from Mel’s retirement to me.  I tell her how I adopted a dog from the shelter, how my son loves this dog and lets her kiss him right on the mouth.  How my son lost his two front teeth, and how I was woefully unprepared for his first visit from the tooth fairy.  I ramble on for thirty more minutes, trying to make her laugh and distract her from offering me another drink.

I’m rescued from my rambling by her phone ringing.  She apologizes and answers it, and I take the opportunity to go to the bathroom.  I’m feeling weak and shaky and I know that I can’t stay here much longer without drinking, and I splash some cold water on my neck so I don’t ruin my makeup.  Then I notice that the sink plunger is down and there is hand sani by the sink instead of soap.  Fuck! On top of it all I just fucked up her sink.  I go to her living room, and tell her about the sink.  She gives my a glass and a paper towel, and asks if I can scoop out the water and pour it in the toilet and then sop up the rest with the paper towel.  I do as she asks, and go back to the living room.

I notice her whiskey glass is full again.  I don’t sit down.  I make the excuse that my dog has been in her kennel for five hours, and needs to be let out.  I hug her tight, and tell her to take care of herself knowing she won’t.  I comment that we can’t let another three years go by, and we need to see each more often.

I get in my car, and light a cigarette.  I drive away with determination that I want to save her.  Another one of our mutual friends just went through loosing her husband too, maybe I could get them together to talk.

But I know I can’t save her.  Whiskey is her best friend right now and her only comfort.  I know if someone would have told me to quit drinking in the midst of my depression and divorce, I would have rather had an appendage amputated.  Taking alcohol away from me at that point would have been like taking crutches away from a cripple.  You’re just not done until you’re done, and no one can force you to quit.

I think of how this day would’ve been different if I was still drinking.  It’s 4:00 p.m. on a Saturday and I already would’ve had two margaritas, and two glasses of wine, and probably still be sitting on that couch drinking.  I would then have to make the choice of whether I would spend the night on Mel’s couch, or drive home buzzed and open another bottle of wine to finish off the night.  Either way I would be hung over when my ex would drop off my son tomorrow, and we would have a movie day.  But I didn’t drink, and I hope I see Mel when she is sixty-six. I release the urge to save her.  She can only save herself when she is ready.  Peace comes over me, and  I look forward to day 98 of sobriety.

 

Can MILF just meet a DILF?

Dating used to be so easy when I was in my twenties, and  drinking was still novel.  Looking back I’m sure I was really approachable with my pint of beer, cut-offs, and flip-flops.  Connections were much easier to make back then when all it took to make me swoon was a good discussion about Slaughter House Five.

But the years of financially supporting starving artists has made more selective.  That and I now have to actually feed and keep a  roof over the head of a child, a dog, a gecko, and myself.

When I envision myself in a new relationship, I now see simplicity.  Laughter in the kitchen, dance parties in the living room, and stolen kisses that make me blush.  A new romance where we also support each other with a partnership in parenting.  I could French braid his daughter’s hair while tolerating Taylor Swift.  I could then bribe her to listen to some Blondie or Pixies by letting her use my lipstick and eyes shadow.  My new love would show my son how to swing and slide, with copious amounts of high fives, and beaming smiles of accomplishment.

I could really care less what type of music he listens to, or what kind of hobbies he has.  In fact, when I think of my grandparents who were married for fifty eight years and adored each other until their last days, I can’t recall a single instance where one of them commented on the others knitting or wood carving.

But these are things that seem to matter on dating sites now.  Hobbies and tastes.   We are all struggling to attract our soul mates with a picture and a paragraph.  To tell our stories in a world with a short attention span.  So I am putting it out in the universe that I am seeking a man of character who I have chemistry with, who is smart and strong, and is tender and patient with my son, who knows the challenges of single parenting because he is one.

So I wish all of you fellow seekers of soul mates good luck.  I’ll be swiping left on all the “no kids, never married, no drama” bachelors, and right on all the Disney dads.  In the meantime don’t judge me when I wear my tight jeans to the t-ball field and laugh a little too loud at the PTA meeting.

 

 

 

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