Dry January is a thing this year. The concept is simple: abstain from alcoholic beverages for the 31 days of this month.
Although I applaud those who are taking a break from their normal indulgences, I can’t resist the temptation for oneupmanship. I’ve been dry for 37 years now and counting.
I was never a problem drinker or an alcoholic, mind you. But during my high school years, I did my share of experimental drinking.
Actually, I started experimenting with alcohol in junior high. Hey, it was the 1980s, and there was no helicopter parenting. No smart phone apps that parents could use to track your whereabouts. All kids were free-range kids in those days.
I didn’t go to school drunk, or anything extreme like that. I played sports, I got decent grades. But I drank a little, too.
I quickly discovered, though, that I didn’t like hangovers.
There is no sick like hangover sick. A bad hangover is ten times worse than a typical case of the flu.
I remember spinning rooms on winter mornings. I remember dry heaves long after there was nothing in my stomach.
But for a while, at least, I continue to drink. Why? Why do teenagers do anything? Because that’s what other teenagers are doing.
Then came the New Year’s Eve of 1986. My first New Year’s Eve after high school.
A girl I had known in high school had a party that night. I attended. I got drunk.
(I will note, however, that I had a ride from a sober driver. Even though I imbibed in those days, I never drove under the influence.)
I woke up on New Year’s Day 1987, and I felt absolutely horrible. I felt like an old man. And I had yet to have my 19th birthday.
I went for a run in the cold, bracing air, hoping that would help me sweat out the alcohol. The run helped a little, but not nearly enough.
I was still living with my parents. Of course, they wanted to go out for breakfast. Not wanting to alert them to my condition, I went along.
I’m usually up for a hearty breakfast. That morning, though, I was capable of nothing more than plain oatmeal. And even the oatmeal was a challenge against my gag reflex.
I remember my mom’s plate of scrambled eggs, sausage, and gravy. Just looking at it, let alone smelling it, made me want to vomit.
My head ached, along with the rest of my body. Why had I done this to myself?
So on New Year’s Day, 1987, I made a decision: I was never going to do this to myself again.
And I haven’t, not for 37 years. For 37 years, I have been a nearly complete teetotaler.
And you know what? I don’t miss alcoholic beverages. I never crave alcohol, and I’ve never once regretted my decision to stay away from it.
So here’s my challenge to those of you who are contemplating this faddish “Dry January”. Try my challenge instead: “Dry 37”. Abstain from alcohol for 37 years. Then go back to it if you still crave it.
My guess is, you won’t.
-ET