At the cafe in Chelsea the other day, the man in front of me – he was in his early thirties, with a fine head of hair, and wearing a trenchcoat and expensive jeans and sturdy walking shoes – got another punch on his coffee punch card. He held another completed one in his hand.
“Do you want to use one?” asked the counter guy.
“No. I’m saving them up so I can come in here one day and buy the whole place a coffee.”
“Like just all the random people in here?” said the counter guy.
“Yes,” said the man, and he grinned.
The counter man approved heartily and so did I, but just in my head.
In case you were wondering what kind of man I would like to marry (and by marry, of course I mean live in a relationship with for a very long time with the only possibility of legalizing it coming from either tax and/or healthcare needs, unless, of course, gay marriage becomes legal in this country, in which case I will join the Married Army in salute), THIS IS IT.
But I was in Chelsea when this happened, so he was probably gay.
Anyway.
Not much else has been going on, except I went on the wagon for a bit, which didn’t really feel like a big deal, no different than saying, “No carbs this week.” Drinking was wearing me down – not HELPING as it were, but HINDERING. I’ve been feeling down about not being in my apartment yet, and so I’ve been running around with friends in order to cheer myself up. But then I have to spend the next day feeling not particularly happy and exhausted and sometimes cranky (and I really don’t like feeling cranky, I’d so much rather be sunny and cheerful), so in the end I don’t think it metes out.
I’ve certainly been on the wagon before in my life, and I always enjoy it and never feel like I’m missing anything. And there’s this initial giddy sense of power that comes from not drinking. I’m in control! I treasure my body! No regrets! But let us not forget that the real control comes from having enough discipline to have just one or two glasses and call it a night, and while I can comfortably sit down and crank out a first draft of a novel in record time, doing the work every single day until it is done, I do sometimes find it hard stopping at just two glasses of wine.
Last night, with friends, who were drinking some delicious glasses of wine while I did not (though I did eat some of that leftover Easter candy. Ahem), we discussed John Bowe’s “Lives” column about quitting drinking after being “into regular, heavy, New York social drinking.” I found the piece respectfully self-deprecating to the point of perhaps being a little dorky, but of course I totally related to it, and it was definitely well-written, and here I am talking about it, so there you go.
Bowe, as you might recall, had a recent Times piece written about him in the Home section, of all places, about his loveless, self-imposed bachelor life. He’s truly an inspiration to all of us who make a small side living off documenting our lives, although it would be terrifying to hand off the rights to your soul to another writer, even if it was in service of promoting your new book, which this was. Thank goodness it was just in the Home section, right?
The piece rang true to all at the table (except for that late-in-the-essay fetishization of 30-year port), but my comrades did not think they would give up the drink, because they liked it very much.
Some of us drank at home by ourselves like Bowe did, others did not. (I admitted I don’t keep liquor in my home, because it will get drunk, and I often pour out half-full bottles of wine if they are left behind after a party.)
There were discussions of health concerns. We landed on the perennial, “Well if one glass of wine a day is supposed to be good for you, is two really that much worse?” loop for a while. This led to us talking about the importance of moderation, though I don’t know if we necessarily concluded it would be a part of our lives. (Sadly we are writers in New York in 2010, not Puritans in England in the 1600s.)
And how do you go to a goddamn book party – I have two this week – and not have a drink in celebration of your friend?
Well you don’t have to, of course. You don’t have to a goddamn thing you don’t want to.
I would like to have a tidy conclusion now, but I remain unresolved on all of this.
