As a rule, I don’t have much to do with the so-called motivational months: Stoptober (smoking), Movember (prostate cancer), Veganuary (which, in my experience, tends to follow Fartbruary).
But for some reason, this year’s Sober October has struck a chord.
Oddly enough, after a lifetime of drinking, I might be willing to hit him on the head.
It’s not that I’m a particularly heavy drinker. I don’t fall asleep in a stupor at night in front of Newsnight, nor do I find myself hauling embarrassing amounts of empty packaging to the recycling.
But like many people, especially women my age, I drink more than is probably good for me. I love champagne – the glamour, the bubbles, the excitement that comes with the pop of a cork – and there is nothing more enjoyable than a cold glass of Albarino on a warm summer afternoon or a drop of Barolo on a cold summer night. winter.
My unusually high alcohol tolerance doesn’t help. My father always said that being Welsh means being born with two livers, like the two gas tanks on the old Jaguar XJ-6. When one runs out, the other simply kicks into action.
This means that at the end of an evening, when most people are dancing Abba and generally making fools of themselves, I’ll be the one to make sure they don’t accidentally walk away with the wrong husband.
That’s not to say I haven’t had my moments.
I never drink cocktails. In fact, during a party years ago at Checkers for Samantha Cameron’s birthday, I got quite excited while dancing, having downed several Negronis in quick succession.
But I don’t feel like I have a problem with alcohol. I say this as someone who is very self-critical and, for example, has problems with overeating. Drink is not my poison, that is sugar.
And I think that’s part of the reason I’ve given up alcohol.
Alcohol is basically sugar. We may fool ourselves into thinking that having a couple glasses of wine with dinner is very sophisticated, but we can also fill a Dunkin’ Donut with our food.
People tend to characterize problem drinkers as full-blown alcoholics. But the truth is that there are many of us, so-called “moderate” drinkers, who do it not so much for the effects of alcohol but for another, possibly equally insidious and high: sugar.
We may not slur our words or fall down stairs, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t hurting ourselves. We drink because alcohol gives us the same kind of warm, fuzzy pleasure as a chocolate bar or an eclair.
A bottle of rosé contains around 600 calories. You could also eat a whole cake. Only the cake will not leave you with a hangover or give you rampant indigestion during the night.
And that’s really the reason I stopped drinking. Maybe it’s my age (57 years old), but the pleasure simply doesn’t outweigh the pain anymore. I just don’t enjoy it enough to wake up at 3 in the morning with acid reflux or feel sick during my morning walk with the dog.
And I certainly don’t appreciate the greasy belly, muffin top, gray skin, and bloating that result from regular alcohol consumption. And, of course, the inevitable self-hatred.
Lately, when someone offers me a drink, I don’t think ‘ooh, go on’, but rather I experience a slight feeling of dread. Do I really want to do this to myself?
That’s why I’m giving Sober October a chance.
So far (and I admit I’m only about a week in), it hasn’t been difficult. Although what really opened my eyes is the alcohol-shaped hole in my life.
Without a reliable glass of wine during social occasions, I feel like I’m missing out on vital social support. The other night, while having dinner with two friends with my seltzer while they drank vodka, I was paranoid that I might have suddenly become a monumental bore.
I’m struggling to get over the notion that if I don’t drink, I’m no longer “fun.”
Does that mean that drinking alcohol is as much a psychological problem as it is a physical one?
I’m not sure. But what I do know is that after a week, with only one relapse (a small vodka with a friend who had just received terrible news), I feel noticeably better.
I sleep better, I go to bed earlier (partly, to be honest, out of boredom – again, that alcohol-shaped hole), I don’t wake up at night and, joy of joys, my waist feels looser. Surprisingly, I also feel much calmer and less anxious.
Will this be permanent? Am I about to part ways with something that has been my companion for longer than almost anything or anyone?
I doubt. But it’s made me think: Maybe the seemingly sober Generation Z (nearly 30 percent of whom say they don’t drink) is right: Maybe there really is a
There is more life than a glass of aged CH3CH2OH at the end of a long day. Either way, it’s a fascinating experiment.
No one doubts that Amanda Abbington had an unhappy time on Strictly, but her insistence on pursuing the issue is becoming tiresome. Clearly, her professional dancer Giovanni Pernice sometimes went too far and the BBC confirmed six of 17 allegations. But it’s time for Amanda to move on.
Kate’s joyful hug
Whenever cancer appears, it is always heartbreaking. But the story of 16-year-old Liz Hatton, who met the Princess of Wales last week, is especially tough. He is battling a rare and extremely aggressive form of the disease, and doctors say he only has a few months to live. However, this truly inspiring young woman remains resolutely positive and shows us that there can be joy even in the darkest of situations.
It’s a mystery to me, but the on-off romance between Love Island’s Tommy Fury and Molly-Mae Hague is endlessly fascinating to some of my daughter’s generation. Am I too cynical to think that the whole saga is just a ploy to improve their social media standing and subsequent income?
New data shows how Conservative constituencies will be hardest hit by Labour’s divisive VAT raid on state schools, as they are more than twice as likely as Labor to face a shortage of pupil places in the state sector . In other words, vote Labor or suffer the consequences.
Heinz advice? Use your bread!
With much fanfare, Heinz recommends storing cans of baked beans ring side down. Tish! I’ve been doing this for years. Otherwise, the beans will get stuck at the bottom and all that will be left is sauce. Also, I keep the bread in the freezer and take out one slice at a time to toast it. Don’t they all do it?
Yesterday, ahead of the anniversary of the atrocities committed by Hamas last October, “pro-Palestinian” protesters in London displayed banners calling for the annihilation of Israel. A chilling reminder that these terrorists will never be satisfied.
I can’t think of a worse Foreign Minister to negotiate with Spain about Gibraltar. After all, David Lammy believes he can “grow a man’s cervix”! The Spanish will make tapas with it.