Beautiful voice. Makes this so-so throwback 100x better.
26.12.11
29.11.11
dandelion.
2.11.11
27.10.11
15.10.11
27.9.11
25.9.11
21.9.11
paper cranes
 |
For every chance I have to make a wish, I will always make the same one. I have made the same one for eight years now. Maybe my wishes should be bigger, better, grander, but all I have ever wanted was a light, to show me the way to you. |
15.6.11
23.5.11
excerpt from Tupac- The Fear in the Heart of a Man
there is no fear in a shallow heart
because shallow hearts don't fall apart
but feeling hearts that truly care
are fragile to the flow of air
-Tupac.
I came across this while reading The Rose That Grew From Concrete, a collection of Tupac's poetry from 1989-91. As karma is definitely giving me more "learning experiences" than good luck, this poem struck me a bit differently than, say, his poems about living in the Bronx or facing racial discrimination. Again, I come back to the idea that a troubled mind will always look for answers in that which surrounds it.
Fear is a defense mechanism. It says that based on observation and past experience, you should fear X because of Y (or Z? whatever). So WTF is that supposed to mean? Fearless people are only so because they are incapable of truly understanding Y? Or are they fearless because they have never had the opportunity to experience Y?
Update 6/2
Totally making fun of myself right now about my reflection on a Tupac poem!
because shallow hearts don't fall apart
but feeling hearts that truly care
are fragile to the flow of air
-Tupac.
I came across this while reading The Rose That Grew From Concrete, a collection of Tupac's poetry from 1989-91. As karma is definitely giving me more "learning experiences" than good luck, this poem struck me a bit differently than, say, his poems about living in the Bronx or facing racial discrimination. Again, I come back to the idea that a troubled mind will always look for answers in that which surrounds it.
Fear is a defense mechanism. It says that based on observation and past experience, you should fear X because of Y (or Z? whatever). So WTF is that supposed to mean? Fearless people are only so because they are incapable of truly understanding Y? Or are they fearless because they have never had the opportunity to experience Y?
Update 6/2
Totally making fun of myself right now about my reflection on a Tupac poem!
17.5.11
Wish List- in no particular order.
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
Sway: The Irresistible Pull of Irrational Behavior by Rom Brafman, Ori Brafman Yay Irrationality! Case studies and pondering.
A Rulebook for Arguments / Edition 4 by Anthony Weston
Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss
Gitanjali: Offerings from the Heart by Rabindranath Tagore (or any better collection of Tagore's works)
The History of Love by Nicole Krauss (Just kidding. This book was either terrible or I was distracted. Or both.)
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws, and the Politics of Identity by Robert Lane Greene
A journal. A nice one.
A Rulebook for Arguments / Edition 4 by Anthony Weston
Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss
Gitanjali: Offerings from the Heart by Rabindranath Tagore (or any better collection of Tagore's works)
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
You Are What You Speak: Grammar Grouches, Language Laws, and the Politics of Identity by Robert Lane Greene
A journal. A nice one.
14.5.11
13.5.11
26.4.11
from Nietzsche's The Tree on the Hill
"If I wanted to shake this tree with my hands,
I should be unable to do it.
But the wind, which we cannot see, troubles and bends it
in whichever direction it pleases.
It is invisible hands that we are bent and tortured worst."
I should be unable to do it.
But the wind, which we cannot see, troubles and bends it
in whichever direction it pleases.
It is invisible hands that we are bent and tortured worst."
24.4.11
David Sedaris- Jesus Shaves
"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"
It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.
"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."
Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.
Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.
We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.
"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"
The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"
Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."
The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.
The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."
She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.
"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."
The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.
"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."
"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."
Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.
"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."
"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.
I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."
My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.
"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"
"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."
The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."
I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"
"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"
It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog--and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.
Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.
In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles--my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.
A bell, though, that's fucked up.
Taken from Esquire.com. Please don't sue me. No one even reads my blog. http://www.esquire.com/features/three-stories-sedaris-0300#ixzz1IbGgHwXg
It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.
"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."
Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.
Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.
We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.
"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"
The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"
Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."
The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.
The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."
She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.
"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."
The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.
"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."
"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."
Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.
"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."
"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.
I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."
My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.
"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"
"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."
The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."
I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"
"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"
It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog--and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.
Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.
In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles--my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.
A bell, though, that's fucked up.
Taken from Esquire.com. Please don't sue me. No one even reads my blog. http://www.esquire.com/features/three-stories-sedaris-0300#ixzz1IbGgHwXg
17.4.11
4.4.11
23.3.11
21.3.11
Damien Rice - Volcano
I don't think anyone connects with a song so much as
when they are looking for answers.
I'd like to get back to that place where music is
a sound and a feeling.
17.3.11
WARREN RED CLOUD (Natural Born Killers):
Once upon a time, a woman was picking up firewood.
She came upon a poisonous snake frozen in the snow.
She took the snake home and nursed it back to health.
One day the snake bit her on the cheek.
As she lay dying, she asked the snake, "Why have you done this to me?"
And the snake answered, "Look, bitch, you knew I was a snake."
This made me laugh, until I realized I'm always that person. The one that thinks they're special, that they could change human nature with love.
I should have left you in the snow.
15.2.11
from C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Today I had to meet a man I haven't seen for ten years. And all that time I had thought I was remembering him well-how he looked and spoke and the sort of things he said. The first five minutes of the real man shattered the image completely. Not that he had changed. On the contrary. I kept on thinking, 'Yes, of course. I'd forgotten that he thought that-or disliked this, or knew so-and-so--or jerked his head back that way.' I had known these things and I recognized them the moment I met them again. But they had all faded out of my mental picture of him, and when they were all replaced by his actual presence the total effect was quite astonishingly different from the image I had carried about with me for those ten years. How can I hope this will not happen to my memory of H? That it is not happening already?
Slowly, quietly, like snowflakes-–like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night-–little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape will be quite hidden in the end. Ten minutes–ten seconds–of the real H. would correct all this. And yet, even if those ten seconds were allowed me, one second later the little flakes would begin to fall again. The rough, sharp, cleansing tang of her otherness is gone.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Slowly, quietly, like snowflakes-–like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night-–little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape will be quite hidden in the end. Ten minutes–ten seconds–of the real H. would correct all this. And yet, even if those ten seconds were allowed me, one second later the little flakes would begin to fall again. The rough, sharp, cleansing tang of her otherness is gone.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
23.1.11
12.1.11
Drinks.
I Quit Drinking—So What?
Megan Knash
2:30PM, 08/06/2010
At a recent dinner party, my friend’s roommate poured guests another glass of white wine. It smelled crisp, cold, and juicy—clearly the sort of wine that prickles the gums, softens the face and transforms a summer evening into one soft-hued hum. She stopped at me. I held up my glass of sparkling non-alcoholic apple cider. “Cheers,” I said.
Three years after quitting drinking at the age of 27, I’ve accepted my role as the non-drinker at any given dinner party or social event. I’m happy with my decision to teetotal, but some of my peers are less so—for example, my friend’s roommate.
“So you’re not drinking? At all? Really?”
I insist I’m fine with my cider.
Life without alcohol demands strategy. For example, most dinner parties don’t provide a non-alcoholic beverage, so I bring my own—something with garnish and flair, something as fancy as the alcoholic option: organic lemonade with strawberries, slow-brewed ginger ale with candied ginger, iced green tea with homegrown mint. At gatherings, fellow guests ogle my drink, share if they’re so inclined, ask some questions and then relax. Usually, people are more interested in what’s in their own glass. So much so that people forget: 1) I didn’t drink last time; 2) I am not currently drinking; and 3) I won’t be drinking in the future. Even after telling new friends a dozen times I don’t drink, they still offer me alcoholic beverages at parties or picnics. It must be unfathomable—or maybe just forgettable—that a 30-year-old woman wouldn’t tipple.
When I first quit drinking, having to say no to cute cocktails and slender-stemmed wine glasses filled me with bottomless shame. I’ve since grown into my life as a non-drinker—a life without starting awake covered in sweat and wringing my hands as I fumble to recall what I said or did in the previous hours—and embraced my choice to abstain. I relish the benefits, too. I sleep like a kitten. I feel clearer and calmer than I ever did during my decade-long stint with booze. I enjoy beautiful mornings. I don’t let secrets slip.
If people really want to know the brutal truth of why I quit, I tell them. I blacked out. I behaved badly. I couldn’t predictably control my intake. I made poor decisions. I experienced gut-twisting, head-imploding hangovers. Anxiety choked me. But these truths are a buzz kill. So when people ask me, I’ll usually say things like, “It didn’t work for me anymore.” Or, “I come from a long line of alcoholic depressives, and I thought it would be smart to stop.” Or, “My drinking days are over, but I’ll still par-tay with you, betch.” Then I shake my ass and grin.
I’d like to think these answers demonstrate I’m not humorless or judgmental. It doesn’t bother me that other people can still drink when I can’t. Some people can’t eat shellfish or wheat. But I accept that I’m largely powerless as to whether others misinterpret my choice as an admonishment of their own lifestyle.
After clearing plates in the hot apartment, our party sat down with dessert and fantasized about fall-weather activities.
“There’s apple picking in Long Island,” I suggested.
“We could stop by the vineyard on the way back,” said the roommate.
Consensus swept over the room. It was decided: to a vineyard, we would go.
“I can be the designated driver,” I laughed.
“Here you propose this wholesome activity, and I suggest we go have drinks instead. You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
It wasn’t the first time the roommate asserted what I must think of her.
At the first party we attended together, while she poured her second glass of wine: “You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
During an evening at a Thai restaurant when she described her previous evening’s date at a bar: “You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
In fact, I don’t think she’s an alcoholic, only that she’s self-centered to believe my personal choice somehow indicts her.
Later that night, she addressed me with an alternative to the winery.
“We could pack a picnic to eat at the orchard and buy some apple cider to drink. Only the rest of us could spike ours with a flask of whiskey and enjoy a real drink. A real drink!” She eyeballed me for a reaction and laughed. I laughed too.
A real drink. An adult beverage. Where do we learn these terms? Recently, my husband, who quit drinking at the same time I did—not because he had a problem but because he never enjoyed drinking all that much to begin with—was asked by a fellow lawyer why he wasn’t having “an adult beverage.” “Listen,” he said to her, “I’m a 30-year-old man. Whatever I’m drinking is an adult beverage.”
Anyway, as adults, shouldn’t we make decisions based on our own preferences, strengths and weaknesses rather than allowing social norms to dictate our behavior?
I couldn’t figure out why the roommate kept bringing up my dryness that evening, but I suspect the threat of having a non-drinker in the midst is that, when folks are drinking together, everyone—except the abstainer—is going somewhere. Together. On a journey. Booze softens the edges. It massages the ache of unspoken words. It dissolves the perceived boundaries among people. When you’re sober, especially if you want to stay that way, you have to be at peace with where you are. You have to believe you’re already where you need to be.
There are a lot of young recovering drunks out there who could be benefit from their drinking peers’ acceptance and support—or at from their least social tact. I chalked up the roommate’s behavior to callousness or insecurity. Her nightlong needling didn’t send me shuttling to the bottle, but someone with less time sober might not have the same tools, the same carefully constructed self-respect, or the same support network as I.
For many, drinking versus not drinking is the difference between life and death. Harping on a vegetarian for not enjoying meat at a barbecue is galling and insensitive, but if the vegetarian breaks down and heads out for a hamburger after the party, she won’t die. An addict who picks up a drink after being nit-picked by her peers might despair and throw herself off a building or just sink back into the groove of self-destruction and self-hatred that could come to define her life. If someone makes the difficult choice to quit drinking, it’s quite possibly to save her life, not a commentary on anyone else’s and definitely not an issue to be mocked or interrogated at a social gathering. I’ll raise a solemn—and sober—glass to that. Now, who’s game for some ass-shaking?Girl Talk: I Quit Drinking—So What?
Megan Knash
2:30PM, 08/06/2010
At a recent dinner party, my friend’s roommate poured guests another glass of white wine. It smelled crisp, cold, and juicy—clearly the sort of wine that prickles the gums, softens the face and transforms a summer evening into one soft-hued hum. She stopped at me. I held up my glass of sparkling non-alcoholic apple cider. “Cheers,” I said.
Three years after quitting drinking at the age of 27, I’ve accepted my role as the non-drinker at any given dinner party or social event. I’m happy with my decision to teetotal, but some of my peers are less so—for example, my friend’s roommate.
“So you’re not drinking? At all? Really?”
I insist I’m fine with my cider.
Life without alcohol demands strategy. For example, most dinner parties don’t provide a non-alcoholic beverage, so I bring my own—something with garnish and flair, something as fancy as the alcoholic option: organic lemonade with strawberries, slow-brewed ginger ale with candied ginger, iced green tea with homegrown mint. At gatherings, fellow guests ogle my drink, share if they’re so inclined, ask some questions and then relax. Usually, people are more interested in what’s in their own glass. So much so that people forget: 1) I didn’t drink last time; 2) I am not currently drinking; and 3) I won’t be drinking in the future. Even after telling new friends a dozen times I don’t drink, they still offer me alcoholic beverages at parties or picnics. It must be unfathomable—or maybe just forgettable—that a 30-year-old woman wouldn’t tipple.
When I first quit drinking, having to say no to cute cocktails and slender-stemmed wine glasses filled me with bottomless shame. I’ve since grown into my life as a non-drinker—a life without starting awake covered in sweat and wringing my hands as I fumble to recall what I said or did in the previous hours—and embraced my choice to abstain. I relish the benefits, too. I sleep like a kitten. I feel clearer and calmer than I ever did during my decade-long stint with booze. I enjoy beautiful mornings. I don’t let secrets slip.
If people really want to know the brutal truth of why I quit, I tell them. I blacked out. I behaved badly. I couldn’t predictably control my intake. I made poor decisions. I experienced gut-twisting, head-imploding hangovers. Anxiety choked me. But these truths are a buzz kill. So when people ask me, I’ll usually say things like, “It didn’t work for me anymore.” Or, “I come from a long line of alcoholic depressives, and I thought it would be smart to stop.” Or, “My drinking days are over, but I’ll still par-tay with you, betch.” Then I shake my ass and grin.
I’d like to think these answers demonstrate I’m not humorless or judgmental. It doesn’t bother me that other people can still drink when I can’t. Some people can’t eat shellfish or wheat. But I accept that I’m largely powerless as to whether others misinterpret my choice as an admonishment of their own lifestyle.
After clearing plates in the hot apartment, our party sat down with dessert and fantasized about fall-weather activities.
“There’s apple picking in Long Island,” I suggested.
“We could stop by the vineyard on the way back,” said the roommate.
Consensus swept over the room. It was decided: to a vineyard, we would go.
“I can be the designated driver,” I laughed.
“Here you propose this wholesome activity, and I suggest we go have drinks instead. You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
It wasn’t the first time the roommate asserted what I must think of her.
At the first party we attended together, while she poured her second glass of wine: “You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
During an evening at a Thai restaurant when she described her previous evening’s date at a bar: “You must think I’m an alcoholic!”
In fact, I don’t think she’s an alcoholic, only that she’s self-centered to believe my personal choice somehow indicts her.
Later that night, she addressed me with an alternative to the winery.
“We could pack a picnic to eat at the orchard and buy some apple cider to drink. Only the rest of us could spike ours with a flask of whiskey and enjoy a real drink. A real drink!” She eyeballed me for a reaction and laughed. I laughed too.
A real drink. An adult beverage. Where do we learn these terms? Recently, my husband, who quit drinking at the same time I did—not because he had a problem but because he never enjoyed drinking all that much to begin with—was asked by a fellow lawyer why he wasn’t having “an adult beverage.” “Listen,” he said to her, “I’m a 30-year-old man. Whatever I’m drinking is an adult beverage.”
Anyway, as adults, shouldn’t we make decisions based on our own preferences, strengths and weaknesses rather than allowing social norms to dictate our behavior?
I couldn’t figure out why the roommate kept bringing up my dryness that evening, but I suspect the threat of having a non-drinker in the midst is that, when folks are drinking together, everyone—except the abstainer—is going somewhere. Together. On a journey. Booze softens the edges. It massages the ache of unspoken words. It dissolves the perceived boundaries among people. When you’re sober, especially if you want to stay that way, you have to be at peace with where you are. You have to believe you’re already where you need to be.
There are a lot of young recovering drunks out there who could be benefit from their drinking peers’ acceptance and support—or at from their least social tact. I chalked up the roommate’s behavior to callousness or insecurity. Her nightlong needling didn’t send me shuttling to the bottle, but someone with less time sober might not have the same tools, the same carefully constructed self-respect, or the same support network as I.
For many, drinking versus not drinking is the difference between life and death. Harping on a vegetarian for not enjoying meat at a barbecue is galling and insensitive, but if the vegetarian breaks down and heads out for a hamburger after the party, she won’t die. An addict who picks up a drink after being nit-picked by her peers might despair and throw herself off a building or just sink back into the groove of self-destruction and self-hatred that could come to define her life. If someone makes the difficult choice to quit drinking, it’s quite possibly to save her life, not a commentary on anyone else’s and definitely not an issue to be mocked or interrogated at a social gathering. I’ll raise a solemn—and sober—glass to that. Now, who’s game for some ass-shaking?Girl Talk: I Quit Drinking—So What?
10.1.11
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