Of forced detox and truth bombs

I remember the first time I got drunk. And no, it isn’t a fond memory. It involves a glass full of neat vodka (Romanov of all the brands, not sure how we drank that poison in college), a big bar of chocolate, and zero understanding of my body’s capacity to handle alcohol. Bottomline, it couldn’t.

But as all college misadventures, this was soon forgotten. And alcohol went on to become an important part of life – the party friend, the courage booster, the conversation starter, the relaxing hug at the end of a taxing day. No, I’m not an alcoholic, but I do enjoy the occasional drink and the social occasions surrounding it.

Well, until suddenly I couldn’t.

For more than a year now, my body has been rejecting alcohol. I tried every permutation combination possible, but everything ended up with me clutching my stomach, curled up into a fetal position at the end of it. Until recently, when I received a medical explanation for this – and was told that I can’t drink alcohol ever again.

They’ve taken away one of my joys, y’all.

You know, it frankly shouldn’t be such a big deal. I mean, I was never a very heavy drinker, I didn’t need my glass of wine at the end of every day. But until I was forced to not have alcohol, I never realised how many things in our life are so closely tied up with drinks.

Parties for starters. I don’t know when exactly it happened – but somewhere as we grew up, we replaced our joyous dancing with drunk dancing – but when you’re the only sober person on the dance floor, it just takes a lot more effort to get your feet moving now.

In fact, if you’re the only sober person at parties, it anyway takes a lot of getting used to. You’re either the person standing around wondering wtf is happening, or you’re the one who is de-facto responsible for other irresponsible humans. Neither seems very appealing.

Or if you’re out drinking with friends – well, there’s only so many iced teas that you can have one after the other – as the evening gets louder, and you’re invariably left with a headache.

And wondering just how boring you’ve become.

But that’s the thing isn’t it? When did the fun level of our personalities get tied up with how high we were? When did we become so dependent on the fuzziness of our heads and our clouded judgements to ensure an evening could be enjoyed?

So that’s what this year is – a forced detox.

And I’m trying my best to accept it with all the truth bombs about myself that come with sobriety.

And I’m trying to remember who I really was, before Romanov played havoc with my liver.

I was pretty fun you know? I mean, I think.

On the other hand, not being able to drink is great on the pocket (1 coffee instead of 4 sangrias –> yup, at least one good thing is coming out of this!)