My belief in the power of manifestation, i.e., “thinking it into existence,” has vanished into the night with my thigh gap and math skills—which is to say it was never here to begin with. It’s true, I posted online that all I wanted was a 1000 sq. ft. bungalow in New Jersey and within two weeks, signed the contract. But whenever I try to telepathically scrub that happy hour we’d planned last week from everyone’s memory, it never fuckin works.
Soul-starved and held together by a chocolate-covered espresso bean. My world, a vase on the edge of the counter, shatters upon reading those three dreaded words:
“We still on?”
I won’t claim the title of Yes Person, but I have been known to rally under poor circumstances for the sake of quality time. Such was the case last week when I ended up drinking Thursday… and Friday… and Saturday. It had been a minute since I pulled a hat trick off the Modelos but the Mexican rooftop bar was calling and the Phillies were playing and honest to God, I don’t even remember what I did Saturday. All I know is my pee was kinda dark by Sunday. I’m sorry. Sike.
Then Tuesday rolled around as it always does. The girls and I had a much-awaited reservation at Tulip Pasta & Wine Bar. Just what I needed after a mini-bender: dinner at a place called WINE BAR! I kept practicing my “I’m actually not drinking tonight!” in the mirror, beefing up the sanctimony with every high-pitched repetition. Not like anyone would question it or care. My friends aren’t huge drinkers to begin with. But I thought I had something to prove to myself—something about willpower and moderation and all that boring shit people will try, and fail, to sell me the rest of my life.
Riliegh ended up having to bail for a work thing, and I thought about canceling myself. But instead of giving power to self-reproach, I doubled down on my decision, marching straight to Monica’s for a glass of wine before dinner. Now, you could say I was numbing healthy introspection around alcohol by, well, consuming more alcohol, and I’d say you’ve got a point. But it was on her couch over ice cold pinot grigio that I felt my shame dissolve in a way that transcended argument:
“I just feel like… the more I think about the fact that I’ve been drinking lately, the more it becomes a thing.”
“You sleep it off, get it together, and move on with your life.”
Eventually we called an Uber and made our way to Tulip. Never underestimate the curative properties of dinner with your friends: when you’re piling stracciatella onto focaccia, smearing it with a pea mint spread, relishing the creamy saltiness before you, you have no choice but to be fully present. We twirled duck fat carbonara around our forks and merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily sipped juicy melon wine because life is but a goddamn dream and who cares that I drank three days last week? Took a smoke break before trying every dessert on the menu over cappuccinos. AH! I just can’t fathom a world in which health freaks and go-getters control the narrative of my life.
I stopped writing an advice column a few months ago, but I still think about what I’d say to anyone who finds themselves bent out of shape over benign choices. I’d say that if you can avoid descending into total hedonism… if you can achieve the mystified “balance” that is within reach to all of us, which, I’d argue, most people are already living and don’t realize because they derive shame from not pursuing total abstinence of pleasure… then you’re doing pretty well.
In fact, I’d say don’t even think about how you’re doing because the particulars will drive you mad, will maybe even drive you to drink. Just eat something green and go for a walk and call your mother, if you can. I’ll grab us a booth. I’ve got all night.
Thinking of all the times I’ve shamed myself and how it’s never once worked! You’re thoughtfully moving through this life and that’s all any of us can want ❤️
Your writing is so good this is the first time I’ve missed being hungover in Philadelphia