Fifteen years

As of today, it’s been fifteen years since I last had a drink.

The reasons why are fairly simple - my drinking was a problem, we had a kid on the way, and I was asked to stop. That sounds glib, but it was not a very complicated decision. I could have a family, or I could keep on going the way I had been. So I gave away every drop of alcohol in the house, and I stopped.

It’s not something I really think about much these days. Early on, I really missed a glass of red with a good meal, or the taste of that first sip of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, but non-alcoholic beer has come a long way since then. (There’s no substitute for a real glass of shiraz, alas.) In the first couple of years I had horrible slip dreams - I’d wake up guilty and ashamed, convinced I’d had a drink (or ten). Sometimes it took hours for that feeling to go away. Those dreams are few and far between nowadays, thankfully.

I’m never really tempted anymore. I’m too stubborn, frankly, and there’s too much that I wouldn’t want to give away. Neither of my kids have ever seen me drunk, or hungover. It’s been a long time since I’ve watched the sun come up with that uneasy mix of regret and dread. I always remember what happened last night. And on a hot day, sparkling water hits that same sweet spot an ice cold beer used to. (Never did get rid of my beer gut though, dammit.)

What I can say on day 5,479 is the same thing I said on day 1: I can’t tell you what tomorrow will bring, but I’m not going to drink today.