The First Minute

One of my fabulous readers, J, sent me (on sobermummy@gmail.com) an extraordinary article which I have to share with you all.

It's written by Kelly Coffey, a personal trainer who used to weigh over 300 pounds (21 stone!) and it's the story of a talk she gave to a group of seventeen year old girls which had them all in tears. Ten years on, she still gets e-mails from some of them telling her she changed their lives.

Kelly's speech was about the importance of looking after your body in college, and she was just wrapping up when some smartarse asked her a question.

She was asked what the point was of looking after yourself when we're all going to die anyway.

It sounds like a stupid question, doesn't it? But don't many of us feel like that after decades of drinking too much? I certainly did.

I had a feeling of we're all doomed anyway, so I might as well enjoy myself while I still can. And I carried on... not enjoying myself, but getting progressively more miserable.

Well Kelly's answer to this girl's question totally summarised the difference between my life now, sober, and my life when I was drinking a bottle of wine a day. She says it's all about the first minute.

Kelly said "Even if you sleep late, eventually every day begins, and in the first minute of each day you have to face yourself. Day after day, until you die, you will wake up and remember what you’ve done.

Memories of what you did the night before will bubble to the surface. Those memories will come with feelings. If you binged on ice cream or box wine or cocaine, that will be one of your first thoughts, and it will come with a weight of shame, maybe even self-hate.

Those feelings may be subtle when you’re young and you think you have all the time in the world to turn things around. But unless you practice treating yourself well, soon you’ll be in your 50s and you’ll wake up and the pain of that first minute will be so intense that the day ahead will feel like a prison sentence.

I’ve spent years harming myself and years healing myself. I’ve had thousands of first minutes that were torture and thousands that were good, and I can tell you that nothing has more of an impact on how we feel about just being alive."

And that is so true.

Towards the end of my drinking years, my first minutes were characterised, at best, by a feeling of ennui. What's it all for anyway? At worst my first minutes were filled with shame, dread and fear.

Now, almost every first minute (everyone has some bad days) is filled with hope, expectation and exhilaration. I start the day like my terrier, bounding out of bed, wagging my tail, desperate to get on with the excitements of a new day.

I'm not kidding or exaggerating.

And that, more than anything else, is what has changed my life.

For the Kelly's full article, which is well worth the read, click here.

Love SM x

Deja Vue

So, this weekend we're going to stay with friends in the glorious Cotswolds.

For the benefit of my American friends, the Cotswolds is the go to part of the country for London A List celebrities and Hollywood location scouts.

You know the picture of the archetypal perfect English village, all honey coloured stone and patchwork fields, on the 1000 piece puzzle that Great Aunt Edna brings out every Thanksgiving? That's the Cotswolds. So is the picture on the English biscuit tin.

It may look sleepy and peaceful, all chirpy birdsong and the distant drone of the combine harvester, but it's actually party central.

This county is the home/second home of some serious imbibers, like Kate Moss and Jeremy Clarkson, both of whom have featured in this blog (see Drinking and Sexism, and Alcohol Induced Rage).

More vino will be drunk at the house party this weekend than could fill a Cotswold swimming pool (tastefully tucked away in the walled garden). There are three families staying over, and three or four more couples coming for dinner.

And today I have a big case of the deja vues.

I've been thinking back to the last time I went to stay with these friends. It was just over a year ago, about a month before I quit for good (the timing is not entirely co-incidental).

We arrived at around 5pm. I expect our hostess offered tea or wine, but the question was academic. We got stuck in. Obviously. It was a Saturday, and we'd been on the motorway for two hours. We'd earned it.

One of the couples joining us for dinner that evening were running late, so we didn't sit down to eat until around 9pm, by which point I'd drunk at least a bottle of wine, on an empty stomach.

I cringe now thinking of the poor man who sat next to me (the fat, incoherent lush) at dinner. I remember struggling hugely to think of anything to say that wasn't a terrible cliché. What do you do? How old are your children?

I told a joke that was so bad they were still teasing me about it the next morning.

Then, at about 11pm I took myself off the bed, as I could barely stay awake/upright by that point.

The following morning I remember counting down the minutes until midday, when I could legitimately accept a glass of wine to take the edge off my headache.

This, for me, was one of the signs that my drinking was becoming a problem.

You see, 'normal drinkers' can't bear the idea of any alcohol on a hangover. Problem drinkers can't bear the idea of not having a drink on a hangover. (See my post: 5 Signs You're a Problem Drinker).

Needless to say, this weekend is going to be different.

And, you know what? I'm really looking forward to it. Because doing a weekend like this sober can be hard at times, but not half as hard as doing it rip roaringly drunk!

Have a fabulous Friday, my friends,

SM x

Sober House Party

Saturday night was a friend's birthday party.

She'd invited fourteen of the old University gang to her house in the country for dinner, and to stay the night. We'd all managed to offload the children, so it was a rare 'grown ups only' event.

I took a six pack of the trusty Beck's Blues down with me, and stashed them in the hostess's fridge.

And you know what? I've pretty much cracked the whole partying sober thing.

For a start, it really helps when you feel physically good, which after eleven months off the booze you do.

(Click here for more on quitting drinking and losing weight).

I didn't feel totally 'hot', but did feel, at the very least, 'warm.' I wore a red lace dress, and, according to Mr SM, everybody said I looked great (admittedly, they hadn't seen me since the whole cancer thing, so their expectations were probably pretty low).

I happily drank my AF beers before dinner. Then, once we'd sat down, I let them pour me a glass of red wine, but just drank the water. (People feel edgy if their dinner companion has an empty glass. So long as it's full, they don't care, or notice, if you drink it or not).

I had great fun at dinner catching up with old friends, then I won a table football tournament hands down (easy when the opposition are all drunk), and did lots of silly dancing.

Plus, I discovered that I have a new role at parties. People want to talk to me. They offload. They ask advice. This hasn't happened to me for years! No-one wants an in depth conversation with the out of control lush....

I talked to one friend about his insomnia, another about her new business ideas and yearning to escape London, and a third about being a step mum. Proper, life enhancing conversations that I still remember!

Then, at about 1.30am I sloped off to bed, knowing that no-one would notice, and that the only bit of the party I was missing was the bit that no-one would recall clearly.

And the morning!

A house full of hangovers. What a treat. I tried really hard not to feel smug, because that would be mean and unsympathetic of me.

I failed.

As I left, the hostess gave me a hug and said "I feel awful. I think I may join you on the whole no booze thing...."

We picked the children up from my parents' house, and took them out for lunch.

I was eulogising about the fact that Pizza Express have started stocking alcohol free beer (Vive La Revolution!)

#2 piped up "Mummy, how long has it been since you had any wine?"

"Nearly a year, sweetheart," I replied. "Why? Do you prefer it when I don't drink wine? Am I different?"

"Yes," he replied, "you're more....."

We all waited in anticipation, while he searched for an appropriate adjective. Beautiful? Patient? Kind?

"......Mummyish," he concluded with a flourish.

So, there you have it. Quit drinking. You'll still have a ball at parties, and you'll be more.... Mummyish.

Love SM x