90 in 90

I went to AA.  Not to admit I’m an alcoholic, but to support my bestie as she huddles in The Rooms and reads The Book and completes The Steps.  It’s all very organized, and they even serve you coffee (water or soda for .50).  I’ll admit it was a comfortable space, much like a living room, if your grandmother decorated with AA Sayings and AA brochures (Support for those who love an alcoholic; AA for Beginners).   Even the clock was inspirational.  In giant gold lettering the face read “One Day At A Time.” Get it? Time?  Hilarious.  The meeting was fine, everyone was nice, I beat it out of there as soon as the clock struck 11:30. 

I was starting the day on empty having spent the night before SOBER and hiding all of my booze.  This would include my extensive wine collection and a whole other collection of cooking wine.  I didn’t resent doing this so much as my apartment is small and open real estate is at a premium, making it a true challenge to find hiding places.  I felt strange and out of place as I welcomed her late Friday night.  Usually we’d have been halfway to the bar before she even took her pillow out of the car.  It isn’t that our relationship is consumed by alcohol, more like we both enjoy drinking, sometimes too much, and have spent many a crazy night working on a killer hangover over the past decade and a half.  I just didn’t know how to act.  I’m a bit of an acquired taste and with her overblown sensitivity no longer dulled by the drink, I was trying hard not to slap her silly with sarcasm and cynical wit.  She had already complained about something I said ‘harshly’ while giving her directions (I still have no idea what I said besides ‘look for exit 20A’). 

I moved through the weekend like a ghost of myself.  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there was a point where I considered, just for a moment, how I could retire early and enjoy a carefully selected vintage in the comfort of my bedroom, where all the booze was hiding.  I’m a naturally anxious individual coupled with the characteristics of a Type A over-achiever.  Deadly combo when faced with a challenge such as this.  I was simultaneously engaged in an epic battle of MOST FUN SOBER WEEKEND EVER and Don’t Say Anything to Trigger a Bad/Stressful/Traumatic Memory.  Epic Fail #1 came as I was washing dishes, chatting with her about AA (duh), her sponsor, and a guy that comes to meetings every week after a bender and says ‘three days clean’.  She looked over at the wall and saw my kitchen calendar, from my liquor store. Literally, it has the logo of my liquor store, complete with monthly recipes for tantalizing cocktails.  She began to read April – Melon Ball. Shit. We laughed it off and I made a mental note that it’s completely unnecessary to advertise my vices (for years I hung a High Times calendar).

Epic Fail #2.  There was a moment of pure panic.  We sat down to eat at a food court and my OCD was on over drive.  We were hanging out at one of those dirty indoor flea markets where everything is sold in troughs.  Just breathing the air made me feel like I needed a long, hot shower.  It wasn’t enough to wash my hands before eating a pretzel.  I needed to douse my hands in sanitizer the minute I walked out of the bathroom in order to feel even 2% clean enough to eat.  I went around the table squeezing out sanitizer and after I gave her a shot she immediately recoiled and said ‘does this have alcohol in it?’ Um, yeah…..Her face contorted and she said it smelled really bad and she had to get it off her hands.  My mind was racing: Did I just break her sobriety? Was it my fault she just relapsed by absorbing alcohol laden hand sanitizer through her hands?  Did she have to start the count all over again? 

She ran to the bathroom and I had a mini panic attack.  I had been so careful and now I had made a very careless mistake.  Sobriety is a lot to fucking think about, plan for, execute, and maintain.  I was exhausted.  She told me everything was fine.  She didn’t realize she had gotten so sensitive to the smell of alcohol.  Again, we laughed it off and I know I am the only one holding myself to perfectionist expectations.  She smiles at me and says she’s just happy to hang out and spend time with me.  I feel exactly the same way.

As she drove back north Sunday afternoon, I was immensely proud of her dedication to the cause. She has been sober for 87 days. I’ll toast to that.