I haven’t drunk alcohol in seven years. It’s not a moral decision, but to drink even just a glass of wine makes me feel drawn out and hungover for three days (it might be because of my enzymes, but I’m not sure) – so it’s never worth doing.
It’s occurred to me recently that a decent proportion of my friends either don’t know this, or forget. This is likely because I get visually ambiguous drinks like lime sodas and I guess I’m lively at parties; the last one to leave the dancefloor and all that. And also, because I try not to mention the fact I don’t drink.
Initially, this was, if I’m honest, because I’m Asian. If I explained I didn’t drink to, say, a new colleague, they would cock their heads to the side and do a sort of sympathetic nod as if to say “say no more”. I got the impression they thought I was devoutly Muslim or similar.
Now I avoid saying I don’t drink it because it doesn’t fit with how people think of me. Even if I were to say something as cringe as “I don’t drink, but I’m fun!” people inevitably wouldn’t believe me – and I don’t blame them.
Because when someone says something like that, I find out they are not only inherently dull (I would imagine even with alcohol) – but also that they’re preachy about how much better a person not drinking has made them, and therefore annoying. Isn’t it the same with anyone who lays claim to being ascetic and virtuous? Someone who informs me they’re “a morning person” becomes instantaneously unlikeable.
So I’m currently feeling ultra-sobered by the news of soberism this Christmas. Apparently, 78 per cent of people born after 1996 plan to start Dry January early and have a “Dry Christmas”. And employers are increasingly turning to sober office Christmas parties – spending on “team-building” activities in the place of an open bar.
I get that workplace dynamics are different these days, but haven’t people seen Love Actually? The historical purpose of Christmas parties is to obtain Dutch courage to snog the man you’ve fancied for a while (topless Karl, not your married boss/Alan Rickman). Or to drunkenly bond with a co-worker you’d hitherto found frosty. Festive activities which firms like PwC are bringing in instead – wreath-making and erm, clay pigeon-shooting – sound like a naff hen do for a pregnant bride-to-be.
And even if you’re not drinking, in my experience there’s nothing more irritating than someone trying to cater for you by prefixing an event with the word “sober”. It’s so pretentious. Why go to a “sober rave” when you can go to a normal rave without drinking and shut up about it?
It makes everything less fun to hone in on your sobriety – when I admit I’m not drinking I suddenly feel more self-conscious. And everyone gives me the berth of that container that blocked the Suez Canal because they feel self-conscious about looking ungainly through the eyes of a sober person. I can no longer feed off the drunk energy of the people around me I rely on.
What do I blame this newfangled sobriety on? The amount of articles and Instagram posts from smug, self-satisfied teetotallers. One Guardian piece last December was titled “I quit drinking with flying colours. Oh, the things I could see from my high horse.” I applaud anyone who has gone teetotal to address genuine health issues, but a lot of the sober movement’s promotional content makes me want to drink again so I don’t have to self-identify as such.
So many sober people act as though they have achieved a certain enlightenment – and let me tell you, we absolutely haven’t. If you really had to stop drinking and you don’t have underlying addiction issues, you would adapt. The only side-effect is apparently the inexorable desire to tell people how much better you feel (implicitly, than them) because you’re not drinking.
To be able to drink is a wonderful thing – a chance largely missed by people who have suffered from addiction and have to abstain altogether. It’s such a shame to give up that joy lightly.
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