It does seem deeply unfair for newly sober people that, just a handful of days after the major challenge of Christmas, they are faced with the biggest party evening of the year: New Year's Eve.
(If you are worried about this evening then this post might help: SoberMummy's Party Survival Guide)
I have a complicated history with New Year's Eve.
I've had some wonderful, unforgettable times with incredible friends in beautiful places. But I have also had many years that have bowed, then broken, under the pressure of expectation. Years when I attacked the booze so enthusiastically, and so early, that well before midnight I'd be sleepy, grumpy and able only to slump in an armchair, telling circular, rambling stories to anyone drunk enough to listen.
And the worst thing about New Year was waking up on January 1st with a raging thirst, pounding head and a mounting sense of despair. How, I would ask, can I find the strength to start all over again?
One thing that is worth remembering if things get tough tonight is that - like many things post booze - everything turns upside down and it becomes all about the morning, not the night-time.
Last New Year (my first sober) I had a relatively quiet evening. It was lovely, but not hugely memorable. But the next morning, as we were in the Swiss Alps, I took the whole family SM up the mountain relatively early. We stood on the deserted peak, literally on top of the world, looking at the most beautiful, shiny New Year's Day and everything and anything seemed possible.
This year I'm being more ambitious.
It strikes me that we tend to blame ourselves for not enjoying parties as much when we get sober, whereas actually it's the fault of the parties.
We expect people to have a wild time at an event which consists solely of a bunch of people - many of them strangers to each other - standing in a room for several hours just talking and drinking. When did that start to happen?
Can you imagine a children's party where forty kids were expected to just talk for five hours? No way! We have pass the parcel, pin the tail on the donkey and pinatas. Then, after just two hours, we give everyone a large slice of cake and a party bag and pack them off home.
There are fewer party games at teenage parties, but the gap is filled by lots of dancing, raging hormones, flirting and experimental snogging.
Even into my twenties I remember wonderful celebrations involving hugely competitive games of charades, sardines, squeak piggy squeak, karaoke, dressing up and Scottish dancing.
Then, gradually, all the party games and events (what my Scottish in-laws would call 'happenings') petered out, and we were left with the standard format of fifty people in a room, constantly drinking, wheeling out tired anecdotes and chasing tired canapés.
This suited me, actually, as all I really wanted to do by this stage was drink. And if I was hosting, the idea of organising anything more challenging than a bottle opener, once I'd had a few glasses myself, was anathema.
But now I'm on a mission to revive the great party happenings of the past.
Tonight we are celebrating Hogmanay in Scotland - five adults and six children with ages ranging from eight to eighty.
Rather than trying to hustle the children into bed early so that we can all get drunk, I'm letting them stay up to see midnight in. It's not as if there's school in the morning (thank God).
We're going to have a huge dinner together, then we'll play charades, guess who? and other party games and teach everyone how to dance an eightsome reel. Then at midnight we'll sing Auld Lang Syne and let off some celebratory fireworks.
Actually, I'm feeling a little exhausted just thinking about it, but I'll make it through on a wave of adrenaline and caffeine.
Hurrah!
Happy New Year to all you wonderful people! See you in 2017.
Love SM x
Showing posts with label party sober. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party sober. Show all posts
Saturday, 31 December 2016
Friday, 20 May 2016
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
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
Saturday, 30 January 2016
Days 30-100
Tomorrow is the end of January.
This means that many of you will be on or around day 30. Perhaps you only intended to quit for one month, and you're already gearing up for a humdinger of a party?
DON'T DO IT!
30 days is awesome work, but you've only just scratched the surface of all the benefits you get from staying sober. This is not it. You have to keep going....
I thought you might like a guide to the next phase: Days 30-100, and I'm hoping that my readers who've been through it already will chip in with their wisdom in the comments section below. So, here goes:
Days 30-100
First off, HUGE CONGRATULATIONS! You've done the first month, and it's by far the most physically gruelling.
By now, I hope, you're sleeping like a baby, and your energy levels are improving. Maybe, now there are no hangovers, you're learning to love mornings again?
You probably haven't lost much weight yet (sugar cravings, anyone?), but I bet you LOOK different. Bright eyed, dewy skinned, less puffy.
Maybe the cravings are getting a bit better too - probably just as powerful, but less frequent. Once a day, rather than all day.
By now you're detoxed. Your liver is doing high fives and thanking you profusely. You are all sparkly and clean.
But now, I'm afraid, the hard work begins.....
Because days 30-100 are all about introspection. Endless naval gazing. The asking of all those big questions like how did I end up in this mess? Who am I (without alcohol)? Who was I (before alcohol)? Where do I want to be? How the hell do I get there?
If, like me, you're British, then the idea of any form of self analysis is anathema. My response to any big LIFE questions was "Pass the bottle!"
It is horribly uncomfortable for all of us life-avoiders, but it's inevitable when you strip your comfort blankets away, and you'll come out the other side a stronger, better and more aware person.
(For more about how this all feels, from when I was going through it, click here)
The other big theme of days 30-100 is learning to deal with fear and anxiety.
Up to day 30, you're so far down in the trenches, and the cravings come so thick and fast, that it's difficult to see any pattern.
But now you'll start to see that there are some major triggers, and the biggies are fear and anxiety.
We get so used to dealing with these uncomfortable emotions by blotting them out that we forget how to cope with them. And if you spend long enough avoiding coping with fear, you find - eventually - that you've completely lost your courage.
Days 30-100 are about tackling fear and anxiety (and all the other nasty emotions like envy, self doubt, boredom, etc) without any props, but in doing so you will, slowly, slowly find your courage returning, and - with it - your self respect.
(For more on this, from my Day 77, click here)
So, once you've done all the introspection and all the dealing with bad stuff sober, you also have to cope with other people.
It's normal for the first month (especially if it's January) to hunker down and not go out much. And if people ask you about your 'not drinking' you can shrug off the question easily - you're detoxing/having a month off/Dry January etc.
But, eventually, you have to start socialising again.
This one takes a while. I still don't have quite the same level of anticipation about social events, but it's gradually coming back.
My advice, and it's controversial, for the early days is to fake it till you make it. The last thing you need when you're still feeling fragile is to have someone grilling you about why you can't have 'just one.'
So I suggest you lie (I'm driving/on antibiotics/detoxing) or fake (drink virgin cocktails, let them fill your wine glass and don't touch it) for a while.
I realise that this is not ideal, but the truth is society is really screwed up about alcohol, and we non drinkers are made to feel like the ones with the problem, not the addicts still quaffing away.
For more on how to cope with, and actually enjoy, partying sober read: Sober Mummy's Party Survival Guide.
Over the next sixty days, you'll find that you get fewer and fewer cravings, but when they do hit they're almost harder to deal with because they're from left field. You're not expecting them.
This phase really is a rollercoaster. You'll have wonderful, pink cloudy days of real euphoria, and some days of despair. That's perfectly normal.
It's known as Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS), and you can read more about it here.
It's all a bit like my favourite children's book: Going on a Lion Hunt:
You can't go over it, you can't go under it, you've got to go through it.
But, after all those ups and downs and insides and outsides you'll find yourself gradually shedding off all those ugly duckling feathers, and one day you'll catch your reflection in the pond and you'll think "Why, I'm a swan!"
By Day 100 it won't be so hard anymore. And you'll be braver, slimmer, nicer, a better parent. Your life will be easier, more fulfilled, and going somewhere.
So keep going, bird by bird, until you find your inner swan.
Love SM x
This means that many of you will be on or around day 30. Perhaps you only intended to quit for one month, and you're already gearing up for a humdinger of a party?
DON'T DO IT!
30 days is awesome work, but you've only just scratched the surface of all the benefits you get from staying sober. This is not it. You have to keep going....
I thought you might like a guide to the next phase: Days 30-100, and I'm hoping that my readers who've been through it already will chip in with their wisdom in the comments section below. So, here goes:
Days 30-100
First off, HUGE CONGRATULATIONS! You've done the first month, and it's by far the most physically gruelling.
By now, I hope, you're sleeping like a baby, and your energy levels are improving. Maybe, now there are no hangovers, you're learning to love mornings again?
You probably haven't lost much weight yet (sugar cravings, anyone?), but I bet you LOOK different. Bright eyed, dewy skinned, less puffy.
Maybe the cravings are getting a bit better too - probably just as powerful, but less frequent. Once a day, rather than all day.
By now you're detoxed. Your liver is doing high fives and thanking you profusely. You are all sparkly and clean.
But now, I'm afraid, the hard work begins.....
Because days 30-100 are all about introspection. Endless naval gazing. The asking of all those big questions like how did I end up in this mess? Who am I (without alcohol)? Who was I (before alcohol)? Where do I want to be? How the hell do I get there?
If, like me, you're British, then the idea of any form of self analysis is anathema. My response to any big LIFE questions was "Pass the bottle!"
It is horribly uncomfortable for all of us life-avoiders, but it's inevitable when you strip your comfort blankets away, and you'll come out the other side a stronger, better and more aware person.
(For more about how this all feels, from when I was going through it, click here)
The other big theme of days 30-100 is learning to deal with fear and anxiety.
Up to day 30, you're so far down in the trenches, and the cravings come so thick and fast, that it's difficult to see any pattern.
But now you'll start to see that there are some major triggers, and the biggies are fear and anxiety.
We get so used to dealing with these uncomfortable emotions by blotting them out that we forget how to cope with them. And if you spend long enough avoiding coping with fear, you find - eventually - that you've completely lost your courage.
Days 30-100 are about tackling fear and anxiety (and all the other nasty emotions like envy, self doubt, boredom, etc) without any props, but in doing so you will, slowly, slowly find your courage returning, and - with it - your self respect.
(For more on this, from my Day 77, click here)
So, once you've done all the introspection and all the dealing with bad stuff sober, you also have to cope with other people.
It's normal for the first month (especially if it's January) to hunker down and not go out much. And if people ask you about your 'not drinking' you can shrug off the question easily - you're detoxing/having a month off/Dry January etc.
But, eventually, you have to start socialising again.
This one takes a while. I still don't have quite the same level of anticipation about social events, but it's gradually coming back.
My advice, and it's controversial, for the early days is to fake it till you make it. The last thing you need when you're still feeling fragile is to have someone grilling you about why you can't have 'just one.'
So I suggest you lie (I'm driving/on antibiotics/detoxing) or fake (drink virgin cocktails, let them fill your wine glass and don't touch it) for a while.
I realise that this is not ideal, but the truth is society is really screwed up about alcohol, and we non drinkers are made to feel like the ones with the problem, not the addicts still quaffing away.
For more on how to cope with, and actually enjoy, partying sober read: Sober Mummy's Party Survival Guide.
Over the next sixty days, you'll find that you get fewer and fewer cravings, but when they do hit they're almost harder to deal with because they're from left field. You're not expecting them.
This phase really is a rollercoaster. You'll have wonderful, pink cloudy days of real euphoria, and some days of despair. That's perfectly normal.
It's known as Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS), and you can read more about it here.
It's all a bit like my favourite children's book: Going on a Lion Hunt:
You can't go over it, you can't go under it, you've got to go through it.
But, after all those ups and downs and insides and outsides you'll find yourself gradually shedding off all those ugly duckling feathers, and one day you'll catch your reflection in the pond and you'll think "Why, I'm a swan!"
By Day 100 it won't be so hard anymore. And you'll be braver, slimmer, nicer, a better parent. Your life will be easier, more fulfilled, and going somewhere.
So keep going, bird by bird, until you find your inner swan.
Love SM x
Sunday, 4 October 2015
Hello Mojo! Where the hell have you been?
We went to a really big party last night. It was a friend's Significant Birthday, and he'd gone to town.
The theme was Game of Thrones. There were 2 huge marquees, decked out with all the mediaeval paraphernalia. Goblets, thrones, huge banners, furs, velvets and dragons.
There was snow, ice sculptures, white walkers and wildlings. There was a dwarf (obviously), jesters, flame throwers and a lady with a large snake (not a euphemism).
In the 'dark drinking days' I probably wouldn't have gone.
You see, it was in the country. Over an hour by car down the motorway. Going would have involved either (a) one of us not drinking (not possible), (b) hiring a driver to take us there and back (horribly pricey, on top of present, costumes, babysitter etc) or (c) finding somewhere to stay locally (ditto expensive, plus a real hassle).
But two months ago, when I got the invitation (on parchment, with a wax seal), I thought wow, that looks amazing. I'll drive. If we leave by 12.30am, we'll be back by 1.30am. Simples.
I dressed up. I rooted through the Wardrobe of Past Lives and Shattered Dreams, and came across a boned corset with lace arms and huge feathers round the neckline (I told you I had a wild past....). I added a new, slinky black skirt and high boots, and a waist length hairpiece (also, for some reason, in my wardrobe).
I took a picture and stuck it on Facebook. This is significant. I don't think I have ever posted a picture of myself on Facebook. (see my post Mirrors and Photographs).
Mr SM was looking grumpy. He wanted to stay home and watch the rugby. I dressed him up in a rather musty smelling old fur coat I'd dug out from the cellar (aka the Pit of Despair), a crazy, black wig and a plastic sword belonging to #2. He looked like a cross between Jon Snow (which was the intention) and Monica Lewinsky (which wasn't).
Mr SM drove us there, and I had a quick peek at Facebook. By the time we had arrived I'd had around fifteen comments saying things like Looking HOT SM! Which meant that, rather than slink in, already half a bottle down, and head straight for the bar (like the old days), I STRUTTED!
My re-discovered Mojo and I OWNED that party (without rudely eclipsing our amazingly generous hosts, obvs).
Now, my local friends, who see me regularly, haven't commented hugely on my transformation. The changes have come gradually. I've lost, on average, half a pound a week.
But most of these people hadn't seen me for over a year. I have never had so many compliments in my life! (Except on my wedding day, when I did look genuinely spectacular, thanks to an army of professionals, a hugely expensive dress and a crash diet).
I must have been described as 'skinny' (which I'm absolutely not, but everything is relative, and I was wearing fabulous corsetry) at least ten times.
A teenaged daughter of a friend said she hadn't recognised me. "Oh, I've lost a bit of weight," I said. "Well yes, but your whole face had changed!" she replied.
I talked to everyone I knew. I remembered their names, and the names of their children (sounds simple, but an impossible feat when drunk, I find). I threw some shapes on the dance floor (dancing sober! Great fun! Who knew?).
I drove home, listening to the BBC World Service, Mr SM snoring, drunkenly, in the passenger seat.
And today, I woke up to a sunny day. Tired but happy. In my own bed. Remembering a great night, when I insulted no-one, managed not to do anything rude or embarrassing, and re-discovered my mojo.
And, just to make it a perfect day, Mr SM has a hangover....
Joy.
SM x
The theme was Game of Thrones. There were 2 huge marquees, decked out with all the mediaeval paraphernalia. Goblets, thrones, huge banners, furs, velvets and dragons.
There was snow, ice sculptures, white walkers and wildlings. There was a dwarf (obviously), jesters, flame throwers and a lady with a large snake (not a euphemism).
In the 'dark drinking days' I probably wouldn't have gone.
You see, it was in the country. Over an hour by car down the motorway. Going would have involved either (a) one of us not drinking (not possible), (b) hiring a driver to take us there and back (horribly pricey, on top of present, costumes, babysitter etc) or (c) finding somewhere to stay locally (ditto expensive, plus a real hassle).
But two months ago, when I got the invitation (on parchment, with a wax seal), I thought wow, that looks amazing. I'll drive. If we leave by 12.30am, we'll be back by 1.30am. Simples.
I dressed up. I rooted through the Wardrobe of Past Lives and Shattered Dreams, and came across a boned corset with lace arms and huge feathers round the neckline (I told you I had a wild past....). I added a new, slinky black skirt and high boots, and a waist length hairpiece (also, for some reason, in my wardrobe).
I took a picture and stuck it on Facebook. This is significant. I don't think I have ever posted a picture of myself on Facebook. (see my post Mirrors and Photographs).
Mr SM was looking grumpy. He wanted to stay home and watch the rugby. I dressed him up in a rather musty smelling old fur coat I'd dug out from the cellar (aka the Pit of Despair), a crazy, black wig and a plastic sword belonging to #2. He looked like a cross between Jon Snow (which was the intention) and Monica Lewinsky (which wasn't).
Mr SM drove us there, and I had a quick peek at Facebook. By the time we had arrived I'd had around fifteen comments saying things like Looking HOT SM! Which meant that, rather than slink in, already half a bottle down, and head straight for the bar (like the old days), I STRUTTED!
My re-discovered Mojo and I OWNED that party (without rudely eclipsing our amazingly generous hosts, obvs).
Now, my local friends, who see me regularly, haven't commented hugely on my transformation. The changes have come gradually. I've lost, on average, half a pound a week.
But most of these people hadn't seen me for over a year. I have never had so many compliments in my life! (Except on my wedding day, when I did look genuinely spectacular, thanks to an army of professionals, a hugely expensive dress and a crash diet).
I must have been described as 'skinny' (which I'm absolutely not, but everything is relative, and I was wearing fabulous corsetry) at least ten times.
A teenaged daughter of a friend said she hadn't recognised me. "Oh, I've lost a bit of weight," I said. "Well yes, but your whole face had changed!" she replied.
I talked to everyone I knew. I remembered their names, and the names of their children (sounds simple, but an impossible feat when drunk, I find). I threw some shapes on the dance floor (dancing sober! Great fun! Who knew?).
I drove home, listening to the BBC World Service, Mr SM snoring, drunkenly, in the passenger seat.
And today, I woke up to a sunny day. Tired but happy. In my own bed. Remembering a great night, when I insulted no-one, managed not to do anything rude or embarrassing, and re-discovered my mojo.
And, just to make it a perfect day, Mr SM has a hangover....
Joy.
SM x
Saturday, 4 July 2015
Rude Lushes
Happy 4th of July to all my American friends! I bet that's a tricky one....good luck!
I did my second party in two nights last night. I am SO looking forward to a night in with Mad Men and a hot chocolate....
(In the old days I'd now be on a weekend long bender in order to postpone the inevitable hangover, anxiety and self loathing).
I am getting used to sober life now, but parties, whilst getting easier, I still struggle with. It's also one of the topics that people e-mail me about the most.
I no longer get that fizz of anticipation leading up to a big event. But I don't dread events any more either. Now it's just mild, but mounting, anxiety.
I don't worry that I can't do it. I know I can. I don't even worry that I won't enjoy myself. I know I will, at least for a few hours.
What I still worry about is being seen as boring.
I used to pride myself in being unconcerned by what others thought of me. Now I wonder whether I ever achieved this state of 'blissful lack of concern' sober! I suspect it's yet another thing I have to learn to do unaided...
So, last night was a party that some friends throw annually. Each year there are a handful of new people, but most of us have known each other for ten or twenty years.
I find that sort of event harder than walking into a room full of strangers. Too much (drunken) history, too many past (accidental) insults, too many (uncomfortable) questions.
An hour into the party I was chatting in a small group and this girl bounded up and hugged the people I was talking to. She turned to me, all Hollywood smile, frozen frown lines and fake breasts, and said "Hi, I'm Blanche."
I knew she was Blanche. I knew last year on the two or three occasions that we met that she was Blanche. I've known for the last decade that her name was Blanche. She does this to me every time!
What Blanche was actually saying, as she flicked her hair and pouted at me was "you are far too insignificant for me to bother to remember."
I was, as you can tell, livid.
But then it struck me that I have done that sort of thing many, many times. At the same event in previous years I would have talked to the same handful of people (other big boozers) and ignored everyone else (too square and boring).
Last night I made a point of building bridges. I had some great chats with a lot of lovely people. I left at midnight and drove home (still a thrill!) as the party was ramping up a notch.
Needless to say, I didn't say goodbye to Blanche.
I'm starting to realise that the boozers probably don't think you're boring because they're too drunk themselves to notice what you're drinking. And the non boozers think you're a hell of a lot more interesting and less rude than you used to be.
So now it's a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning. I have the joy of Mr SM's hangover to remind me what I'm (not) missing, but the pain of having to explain to #3 that her tadpoles have died in the heat wave.
Poor little tadpoles who never made it into frogs (there's an analogy there for another day!)
Happy independence day to you all. Here's to freedom!
Love SM x
I did my second party in two nights last night. I am SO looking forward to a night in with Mad Men and a hot chocolate....
(In the old days I'd now be on a weekend long bender in order to postpone the inevitable hangover, anxiety and self loathing).
I am getting used to sober life now, but parties, whilst getting easier, I still struggle with. It's also one of the topics that people e-mail me about the most.
I no longer get that fizz of anticipation leading up to a big event. But I don't dread events any more either. Now it's just mild, but mounting, anxiety.
I don't worry that I can't do it. I know I can. I don't even worry that I won't enjoy myself. I know I will, at least for a few hours.
What I still worry about is being seen as boring.
I used to pride myself in being unconcerned by what others thought of me. Now I wonder whether I ever achieved this state of 'blissful lack of concern' sober! I suspect it's yet another thing I have to learn to do unaided...
So, last night was a party that some friends throw annually. Each year there are a handful of new people, but most of us have known each other for ten or twenty years.
I find that sort of event harder than walking into a room full of strangers. Too much (drunken) history, too many past (accidental) insults, too many (uncomfortable) questions.
An hour into the party I was chatting in a small group and this girl bounded up and hugged the people I was talking to. She turned to me, all Hollywood smile, frozen frown lines and fake breasts, and said "Hi, I'm Blanche."
I knew she was Blanche. I knew last year on the two or three occasions that we met that she was Blanche. I've known for the last decade that her name was Blanche. She does this to me every time!
What Blanche was actually saying, as she flicked her hair and pouted at me was "you are far too insignificant for me to bother to remember."
I was, as you can tell, livid.
But then it struck me that I have done that sort of thing many, many times. At the same event in previous years I would have talked to the same handful of people (other big boozers) and ignored everyone else (too square and boring).
Last night I made a point of building bridges. I had some great chats with a lot of lovely people. I left at midnight and drove home (still a thrill!) as the party was ramping up a notch.
Needless to say, I didn't say goodbye to Blanche.
I'm starting to realise that the boozers probably don't think you're boring because they're too drunk themselves to notice what you're drinking. And the non boozers think you're a hell of a lot more interesting and less rude than you used to be.
So now it's a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning. I have the joy of Mr SM's hangover to remind me what I'm (not) missing, but the pain of having to explain to #3 that her tadpoles have died in the heat wave.
Poor little tadpoles who never made it into frogs (there's an analogy there for another day!)
Happy independence day to you all. Here's to freedom!
Love SM x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)