The other day, I was running numbers in my head. Primary among them is my age. I turned seventy-one in April and have yet to recover. By that, I mean I can’t fathom being this old. Although seventy was way tougher. Like a sledgehammer to the head followed by a boot in the ass. By someone wearing cleats.
For those of you who aren’t there yet, if you think turning fifty is a milestone, wait until you hit sixty and beyond. Once you’re out of your sixth decade when it’s still possible to lie to yourself about who and what you’re becoming, and what your future as an old f##k might hold, it’s damn near game over.
Although it beats the alternative (yeah, yeah, I know), aging is a bitter pill. Rather than embrace the process, and sink into it, like others seem to do, I wrestle it to the ground, or try to, with a barrage of supplements, vigorous workouts, and conversations with myself where the primary message is, “Sherry, you can beat this!”
I don’t want to die.
That said, there was another number that poked through my gray matter and caught me up short and that was the sobering reality that I’ve been a boozer for over fifty years.
Hold up. I need to soften that as “boozer” conjures up some truly unfortunate imagery. I’ve been imbibing alcohol for over half a century. There. That’s better. Sorta.
Oh, f##k me, it isn’t.
I’m guessing, as I don’t remember exactly when alcohol’s allure called to me like the sirens who merely wanted to “entertain” Homer’s Odysseus with enchanting melodies, that I began imbibing in my late teens. But, unlike the hero of The Odyssey, I failed to resist. Oh, quite the opposite as I inherited my affinity for hootch from my parents, who were world-class drinkers. And, most certainly, alcoholics, albeit, it wasn’t booze that took them both down in their early eighties. It was stage four lung cancer. A hell of a way to go, and a cruel one.
I hesitated to use the word “alcoholics” but I can’t sugarcoat the truth. It twisted my stomach into knots back then, growing up, when I was always primed for the next tumultuous blowout between my folks, and made me into the person I am today—someone who likes a drink or three, with anxiety and OCD as lifelong chasers. Yet, they handed down other attributes, as well. Grit and a savage sense of humor from my mother and my father’s love of “scribbling.”
And I still like to drink, but it doesn’t like me. Not so much. Because, you see, a seventy-one-year-old body, no matter how fit, cannot metabolize booze like it once did. Hangovers feel like death and the hit to one’s appearance is undeniable.
A study by Northwestern Medicine cites that “Daily consumption of liquor for five years was associated with a four-month acceleration in biological aging, so if you drink liquor daily for 15 years, your biological age will be one year older.”
So, aside from the bloated face, dry skin, and eyes that look like pissholes in the snow, alcohol accelerates the aging process.
Shit. I’m way too vain for that.
But, I like to drink.
Yet—the question remains, “Why?” Why do I like to drink? Because a slug or two at night helps relieve the anxiety and overall disappointment I feel at not having achieved my writing goals, and well, other things. Conversely, the booze hasn’t helped so where does that leave me?
Hangovers. Holy shit. Through the years, I’ve had my share. Self-inflicted, physical and mental beatdowns that had me swearing, “Never again!”
The lies we tell ourselves.
But back in the day, my body could take it. I’d puke, hydrate, bounce back and do it all over again.
Nowadays, a truly wretched morning after can morph into two or three. Yet, I’m happy to say that no longer happens, because I don’t get drunk. But I’ve yet to stop drinking for a significant amount of time. Oh, I’ve laid off the sauce for a couple of weeks at a time, at the most, always to the same result: I start feeling better. Good, even. So good that I tell myself, “You got this.” And then, as you might expect if you’re anything like me, I don’t got this.
Did I say that I like to drink?
Thankfully, due to a healthy diet and supplements like milk thistle, my liver is in top-notch condition, but I realize that I’m fortunate, and if I continue throwing caution to the winds, well, you know.
If I were to choose, I’d say vodka is my particular poison although through the years, I’ve tried nearly every spirit imaginable, and of course, vino. Sweet drinks were never my thing. Thank heaven for. small favors, huh?
But—Dad did make a killer Mai Tai, bless him.
My husband quit drinking alcohol roughly a year and a half ago. He finally realized that the medications he takes make any amount of booze detrimental to his very existence. I’m proud of him for that even though he’s always had more self-control than me. I’m not a “take it or leave it” type of broad and never have been. When I go, I go balls out.
So, over the last several months, I’ve fallen into a boozing “routine,” of sorts. I stash vodka in our basement—the cheaper stuff mind you because I don’t shit on myself quite enough—and throughout an evening will lumber down the stairs and take a belt or two.
My husband said I could drink in front of him if I like, but I’ve chosen not to in the misplaced notion that I’ll drink less if I have to go up and down our basement stairs to get at it.
Sometimes, a belt or two morphs into a vodka tsunami of sorts as, to further kid myself that I’m not engaging in self-harm, I water the shit down.
Hey, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt!” I heard that in a film about alcoholics, the name of which escapes me. And, only now, did I learn that it’s a Mark Twain quote.
You learn something new every day, folks. Even at seventy-one.
Here’s something else I’ve learned. When I don’t drink for several days in a row, say six or seven, I accomplish more. Yes! It’s true! Without the low-grade hangover and the feeling that I fucked up once again, my energy, which is high even on my worst days, is through the roof. Manic, almost, which probably isn’t a good thing, but I’ll take it. Too, mentally, I’m clearer and more focused. I mean, look, I’m writing this story and I haven’t put my nose to the literary grindstone in days. That in itself, is a concern because it signifies, to me, anyway, that I’ve given up and I mustn’t do that. Ever.
Neither should you.
Full disclosure: Last night, I had a sip of vodka, just to “see” how it would feel. It was a big sip. Immediately, I felt it swirl around my gut. My relatively empty gut. And that was it. I drank tea for the rest of the evening.
That’s how I roll. I’m “good” for a while, feeling great, kicking ass, and taking names, and then, I just have to chance f##king it all up.
That said, I need to show myself some grace. Last night, I quit while I was ahead and can do it, again. If I choose to. And therein lies the question.
I referenced past hangovers that I thought would do me in. Through more than a few, I’ve forced myself to work out. Yep. Treadmill, weights, the whole schmear. If that isn’t masochistic, I don’t know what is. And most likely, dangerous. Yet typically, that’s how I punish myself when I slip up. I’m my toughest critic and always have been. I’m working on that but I don’t expect my mindset to change anytime soon.
Because I want to feel even better tomorrow than I do today, tonight, I’m going to whip up one of my signature mocktails. Over lots of ice, I pour a few glugs of a lemon-lime hydration drink, topped off with sugar-free lemonade or a lemon-flavored water beverage, and then, I add a shot or two of zero-calorie, Margarita syrup, from the Jordan’s Skinny Mixes line of sugar-free coffee and cocktail syrups. I give it a good stir and then I add the kicker, or rather, the kick: Several jarred jalapeno slices with a bit of the juice. That gives me just enough burn to replicate an actual cocktail. A dash of Celtic sea salt and I’m good to go.
My mocktail is so tasty I’m thinking of making it by the pitcher. As I said, balls out.
I’m sharing this with you because I know some readers can relate. Perhaps, like me, you know you’re strong enough to quit drinking on your own If that’s what you truly desire. For me? I’m not so sure. Ideally, I’d like the ability to drink socially because I can’t fathom not being able to enjoy a cocktail on occasion. Preferably, a Tito’s Dirty Martini with two, plump blue-cheese-stuffed olives.
Oh, boy. That’s stinkin’ thinkin’ right there because I just made my mouth water.
I’ve also been looking into the new breed of so-called, “mood-enhancing” beverages which include various herbs like ashwagandha, that are purported to boost energy and mental clarity. Some of these sips also contain nootropics, or “smart drugs,” which, according to the National Library of Medicine, are “A diverse group of medicinal substances whose action improves human thinking, learning, and memory.”
Whether these non-alcoholic drinks are effective or not, there’s one thing they have in common: They’re expensive AF. Check out Bonbuz and Kin Euphorics on Amazon and you’ll see what I mean. it’s outrageous, but no surprise because I’ve learned that in order to feel good without feeling bad, one has to pay up the ass. If that isn’t a travesty, I don’t know what is. Much like the high price tag associated with “eating organic.”
So, if you’re an addict without a pot to piss in, and want to inch toward sobriety by experimenting with alternatives, you’re fucked.
Too, and important to note, I have weed and edibles at my disposal. Right now, there’s a tin of Mindy’s yummy gummies tucked away in our bedroom drawer just waiting for me to dive in, courtesy of my husband. Perhaps I’ll partake, later today.
By the way, I should share that it’s Tuesday, having begun this story yesterday, and last night, I enjoyed a mocktail and my customary cup of tea. This morning, before my coffee, I downed a shot of apple cider vinegar in water (customary for me), followed by my a.m. supplements including MCT Oil capsules, Taurine, NAC (N-Acetylcysteine, which is supposed to help detox the body and slow down the aging process, an herb called Eyebright, for my shitty vision and finally, Lion’s Mane. That last is a mushroom that may, according to the Cleveland Clinic, help relieve anxiety, support brain and heart health, lessen inflammation and oxidative stress, and contribute to a healthy gut.
Yeah, I sound like a freakin’ nut but aging in reverse takes work, folks.
I pop several more non-medicinal nostrums throughout the day, but I won’t bore you with my regimen.
Lest you wonder how I’m feeling right now, I’m crackling. Buzzing, even. With a renewed desire to write a book, sell a script or two, and conquer the f##king world.
That last one is a bit much, but I aim high.
But, this is today and I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow. When five o’clock rolls around, I might feel the irresistible urge to take just one sip of that clear, unassuming-looking liquid that’s been a lifelong friend and foe.
Does that sound like I’m setting myself up for failure? Maybe. But, if history holds any credence, I’ll probably f##k up. I usually do.
Here’s what I do know: Either way, up or down, I’ll let you know how it goes. Think of this “journal” as an open book. And, what the next chapter will be, remains to be seen.
Thanks for reading.
