A frightfully beautiful truth

"How are you going to celebrate your anniversary?," a friend asked me yesterday. "Do you have a special bottle of ... oh, that's right, you do not drink."

"I do not drink," I said.

"Not even to celebrate?," she asked. "Not even on your anniversary?"

"I will drink ginger ale," I replied.

We both laughed to forestall any tension that might crop up between friends.

"Hey," she said. "Don't think I'm trying to get you to drink."

I didn't realize that yesterday, the day of my wedding anniversary, marked my 300th straight day of not drinking until this evening. I was out running and counting the joys and blessings of life, and in that moment, counting the days of alcohol freedom just seemed to naturally come up. My mind went to a feeling that returns often these days, a combination of "what if ..., wouldn't just one be okay ..." to "Oh, thank goodness I didn't."

I did realize when I got home from work last night that we were out of the two beverages that have evolved into my drinks of choice: plain seltzer water and ginger-ale. I told my husband I was going to run out to get my libations, and he understood that I did not mean wine, bourbon, or beer. But to pick up my plastic-bottled $1.09 beverages, I needed to walk past a liquor store, one that for two years I had frequented regularly and the store staff knew me well.

"Hey," I thought to myself. "Why not pop in and say hello? Why not see if they have something bubbly, something celebratory, that's non-alcoholic?"

I shook myself, and walked resolutely into the Stewart's convenience store next door.

I find that it's easy to celebrate without alcohol in a manner that is perhaps a little muted but decidedly more sustaining. I enjoy the flavors of food in a way that I hadn't before, and I relish the feeling of being outdoors amid a night chill and being able to savor and embrace the chill, not shrink away from it entirely. I welcome the exhilarating feeling of being exerted during a run as well as the knowledge that I can calculate the quantity and quality of my energy stores in a way that's clear-headed and not under any other influence. I know that when I sleep late, it's because my body genuinely needs the sleep, not because something else that was pleasant and intoxicating lingered into my system.

Still, it's harvest season now, and I find myself thinking about beer and wine almost daily as invitations to wine tastings, grape crushings, Oktoberfests, special prix fixe pairings bombard my in-box. I contemplate home brewing beer. I consider making mead or dandelion wine. I think about religious traditions that sanction -- and even celebrate -- the moderate consumption of alcohol, and I shake my head. Not now. Not yet. Maybe never again.

And, I wonder, is this non-drinking abnormal behavior? Do my friends understand me? Or do they fear me? Do they think I'm being up tight, that a couple of drinks might lighten me up? Will my marriage continue to thrive, in a relationship where one of us is now a non-drinker and the other has cut back but still counts beer as being among life's luxurious necessities?

Over the past several months, I've surreptitiously searched the Internet, wondering how people who quit drinking without being forced to in something like a detoxification program or through support from groups like Alcoholic Anonymous that still seem scary to me manage to cope. Tonight, my searching under the googled phrase "life without wine" revealed some interesting hits: One person created a blog to document his "year without drinking," a year he had yet to start. Another hit turned up a quote from the Bible's book of Ecclesiasticus that insisted that one who has no wine in his life has no life, for wine "was made to make men glad." A third hit revealed another blog where the author was off the alcohol but still running with a literary and artistic crowd of serious drinkers. The author woke up from a party feeling "hung over with happiness" even though she had not touched a drop of the booze. I questioned the wisdom and truth of that experience, having found myself in positions a few times over the past couple of months of being at parties or receptions that I've simply had to walk out of because the smell of the alcohol and vibe of the crowd was too overpowering for me to endure. Regardless of whether the source is happiness, wine, nature, or some other substance, I've had enough experience with hangovers to know that I'd rather not have one at all.

And, that, I have to confess, is  my frightfully beautiful truth. It is indeed a scary thing to put into print. It helps me understand something basic and simple: I might not have been a heavy drinker. I probably am not an alcoholic. I might be able to live some day again with a "just a glass, once in awhile" kind of mentality. But taking that sip is a step onto a slippery slope. I think of how I have steadied myself with writing, gardening, swimming, bicycling, walking, and running over the past 301 days. I am in no mood to stumble for a moment of intoxication and pleasure.

A final story that I read via the Internet came from Oprah.com. Entitled "My name is Amanda and I might be an alcoholic," the piece documents the author's journey to "manage" her consumption of wine, only to find out that even if she didn't appear to be drinking much at all, she was drinking in a way that felt like too much to her. Her strategy went from management to abstention. She quit. Her story resonated, and offered reassurances that in a world where celebration means lifting a glass, I, in avoiding the glass, am not entirely alone.