In the grand cosmic joke where the punchline is often soaked in a barrel of Kentucky's finest or distilled through the grimy pipes of life's less-than-sober moments, here I am, standing on the precipice of the great sober unknown. It's a strange new world, a place where the glasses clink with a hollow promise of memories never made, where the bartender's nod is replaced by a suspicious squint, as if to say, "What's your poison?" and I reply, "Life, my good man. Neat."
I remember the days, those hazy, smoke-filled nights where the world spun not on its axis but on the rim of my glass, a delicate dance of amber liquid that promised the world and delivered a headache. My compatriots, a motley crew of inebriated philosophers and slurring savants, we solved the world's problems one round at a time. But here I am now, a lone wolf in a field of sheep who can't fathom why one would graze without the fermented fruit of the vine.
They look at me, these old friends of mine, with a mix of pity and perplexed amusement, as if I'd grown a second head that soberly judged them, its eyes clear, its mind sharper than a tack made of pure, unadulterated reality. "You're not drinking?" they ask, aghast, as if I'd just confessed to being an alien from a planet where the rivers flow with sparkling water and the trees bear fruit that doesn't ferment.
"No, my dear sots," I say with a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes, "I'm high on life now, and let me tell you, it's the strangest trip of all." They don't understand, they can't. How could they? Their evenings are still written in the bottom of a bottle, while mine are penned in the crisp, clean pages of a new dawn.
I muse on this, this new existence of mine, as I sip my club soda with a twist of lime, a drink that screams "I'm here but not really!" I watch them, these former comrades of mine, as they descend into the warm embrace of inebriation, their laughter a little too loud, their balance just a tad off kilter. They're on a carousel that never stops, while I've stepped off into the glaring sun of sobriety.
It's funny, in a way that's not ha-ha but hmm, how they weave and bob like marionettes on strings of hops and barley, their puppeteer a master brewer with a cruel sense of humor. They dance and they stumble, they sing off-key anthems to the gods of Bacchus, while I stand aside, a spectator to the madness, the designated driver of my own destiny.
The world is different now, sharper, like a television tuned to just the right frequency after years of watching static. Food tastes better, or perhaps it's just that I can actually taste it now, not drowned in a sauce of ethanol and regret. Mornings are no longer enemies to be battled with aspirin and curses, but friends that greet me with a smile and a sunrise that doesn't feel like a personal attack.
And yet, they don't get it, these peers of mine. They see my sobriety as a challenge, a silent accusation against their liquid lifestyles. "Come on, just one drink," they cajole, nudge, wink. "It won't kill you." But I've danced with that devil, twirled under the moon with that dark angel, and I've hung up my dancing shoes for a walk in the sober woods.
It's a lonesome hike at times, I won't lie. The path is less trodden, the birdsong less merry, perhaps, than the raucous cawing of the barroom crows. But there's beauty here, in this solitude, a peace that can't be found in the bottom of a glass or the dregs of a bottle.
I find humor in their disbelief, their insistence that a night without drink is like a sky without stars. "But what do you do?" they ask, bewildered, as if all the world's activities hinge upon the presence of alcohol, as if Shakespeare never penned a word without a flagon of ale, as if all the great loves and tragedies of the world were fermented in a vat of human experience and distilled into spirits.
I do everything, my dear drunkards, everything and more. I live in a world that's bright and loud and sometimes too much, but it's real, it's tangible. I don't need the crutch of a cocktail to hobble through life's party. I'm dancing now, really dancing, to a rhythm that's not dictated by the tempo of tequila or the beat of bourbon.
They say the first step is the hardest, and perhaps they're right. But what they don't tell you is that each step after that first is a little lighter, a little brighter, until you're no longer walking but soaring, above the smoky bars and the sticky floors, above the slurred words and the spilled secrets.
So here I stand, a sober sentinel in a world awash with wine, watching the carnival of the intoxicated with a bemused smile. I've traded my beer goggles for clarity, my hangovers for health, and my drinking buddies for a reflection in the mirror that I can finally recognize. It's not a bad trade, not bad at all. And if that makes me the butt of the joke, then so be it. I'll laugh all the way to the bank of self-respect, sober as a judge and twice as amused. Article kindly provided by healthyvoices.net