Hello. My name is Kelly, and I’m On the Wagon.
Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes a girl’s liver just needs a break. A month-long break. Yup, that’s right; I’m booze-free for the entire month of November.
I started on Wednesday. That’s right. I started a day early. Not because I’m an overachiever, but because I had a meeting that ended up going late and my boss didn’t have any beer in his fridge. Lame.
So why the hell am I going sober for a month? Maybe it have been the glorious week-long holiday known as GABF (yes, it’s a goddamned holiday ’round these parts). It could have been the five, weekend birthday celebrations in October (I have 3 siblings with birthdays in October and let’s just say we all share the same level of affections for booze). Or it could have been the fact that I ended up flirting with a guy dressed like Albert Einstein on Halloween.
OK, so maybe I’d do that any day of the week no matter how much I’ve had to drink.
Or maybe it’s the simple that fact I’d just like this double chin to get the fuck off of my face.
Being alchies you likely know how much hard work and dedication it takes to being a professional booze hound. At some point, my dog began to think a normal walk at night would always be a stumbly affair and mommy’s natural scent was beer breath and regret. We’ve all got to make money to pay them bills and be able to afford the delicious Black Butte Porters and Deconstruction Ales we enjo… Shit, I just drooled writing that sentence.
Don’t worry, kiddos, come December 1st, I will ungracefully roll right back off the wagon and probably into a fresh pile of horse apples (because that’s just my luck) and I’ll be raising my glass to toast you all right before drunk-tweeting my way into the wee hours of December 2nd.
But in the meantime, you get to hear what it’s like to be the sober one living in one of the booziest damned cities in the country. And, folks, it is not pretty.
Take for example, going to a concert on a Friday night. I typically drink at/before shows so that I don’t notice all of the terrible, unwashed weirdos that keep touching me. Not, like, in an “I need an adult” sort of way, but in a “Your poor choice of Axe body spray is raping my olfactory nerves” sort of way.
I drink at shows so that I can somehow tune out the asshole behind me yelling “WOOOOOOOO” until his voice cracks. Of course, once his voice goes, he has to dance in a way that’s somehow just as loud as his voice. Sir, are you carrying a set of 17 keys, all of your laundry quarters AND a tiny set of cymbals in your pocket? Because it sure as fuck sounds like it.
So, yeah. I actually had a pretty good time at the show while sober. The performance was tremendous and I actually remember the whole set (wonders never cease). I also got to watch some poor asshole who forgot about the risers in the balcony section of the Ogden run into the ledge and faceplant, spilling all of the beers he was carrying. Sober or drunk, I’ll never cry over spilt Coors Light. But I had a really good internal guffaw at his expense.
So far this month, I’m discovering that, while being sober isn’t that difficult, being nice is a lot harder. Also, I may not be a boring person even when sober, but holy shit, my life is certainly a lot more boring.
I went to bed at 11 pm on Saturday night after watching several riveting episodes of “Extreme Couponing.” Jesus fuck. What have I done?
Only 25 more days.