It’s time for another wildly unpopular idea. From where I’ve come, some might say I’m adopting a hypocritical standpoint. Others will say I lack compassion or understanding. To you poor-sport pussies I say, get a life.
To qualify myself, I want you (the reader) to know what brand of alcoholic I was. My patterns and markings; that is to say my behavior, should make it easier for you to stomach the plate full of sit-the-fuck-down-and-shut-the-fuck-up that I’m about to serve.
The age at which I took my first drink is inconsequential, in my opinion. What is significant, however, is that I quickly became aware that I drank differently than others.
In all my drinking history I can’t recall a time where I rang the bell or waived the white flag before I got to where I found myself on the floor of some unknown bathroom hugging a toilet a thousand people have rested their asses on. I never said, “I’m good, I’ll stop now,” until it was too late.
What’s equally disturbing is the number of times the scene above happened to me. I can count them on both hands.
In 20 years of hard, and I mean fucking hard-drinking, I’ve only been sick a handful of times. I blame the appetizers or the drugs in those rare cases. There are racehorses that take less abuse than I put myself through that don’t survive. Here I am, still standing. I’m a goddamn cockroach. I tell people I’m alive, my organs kept functioning, by means of artificial sweetener buildup and red-hot anger.
Never in trouble with the law; I once got pulled over while driving intoxicated, the cop was kind enough to give me a ride back to the hotel I was staying at for the night. No ticket. I don’t remember the walk from the lobby to the room. I woke up fully clothed on the bed. I hadn’t moved. After a brief shower, I called in sick to my first day at a new job. I now had to go find my car. But where had I left it? I had a taxi drive me around the surrounding area until I spotted it. I was wasted. Not just tipsy, I was still sloppy drunk.
I found my car, paid the taxi, and was ready to crawl home to the shared apartment I had with my father (sober). I figured he’d be at work; I could sleep this off and have time to come up with an excuse for not coming home the night before. I made no attempt to call to let him know my whereabouts. No doubt he’d have questions as to why I’d missed my first day at a new job.
Opening the car door, I narrowed my focus on the front tire; it was flat. For fuck’s sake! Really?! This was still a fixable situation. I’m a self-sufficient woman. I then did what any self-respecting woman would do: I drove to the nearest gas station and began filling the tire with air. There was a gentleman there who offered his assistance. I barked at him that I was fine and not at all helpless. He left me alone, albeit conceivably confused and visibly frustrated.
All of this “work” and “conversation” left me on edge and parched, if I’m being honest. I still remember the cool of the gray sky. It was 7 am or thereabouts. I made my way into the convenient store and purchased a beer and some candy. You have to purchase something other than just beer; they’ll think you have a problem. I knew I had a problem, that’s why I was living with my father. I was supposed to be working a program of sobriety and living clean. I knew I had a problem. Fuck all if this nobody jerk-off manning the counter at the Rotten Robbie gas station was going to know I had a problem. Fuck that!
I drank that beer before I got back to my car. If you have any assumptions or impressions pertaining to my manners during this phase of my disease you need to squash them, right now. I was pure animal.
Realizing I had to pee, I had two choices. I could go back into the establishment and ask to use their restroom, or there was another option.
I didn’t want to go back. I was having difficulty walking a straight line. I felt weak. I probably hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. I lost track of shit like that when I drank. I also had just pounded a large canned beer in their parking lot after yelling at some innocent dude trying to help me, because fuck him for thinking I needed his help. Not having a dick didn’t make me less capable of pumping air. At this point I just didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself.
So, I went with option #2. I spread my legs just a tad and pissed myself right there in the parking lot of that gas station. Wearing an ankle length skirt, I was afforded some coverage and privacy. It’s about as modest as you can get if you’re going to piss yourself in public. It wasn’t the first time I’d pissed myself, but I do believe it was the last. Maybe not; details are fuzzy.
I don’t tell you this to upset you or gross you out. I don’t say it for pity or for respect. I want you to understand that I was a hopeless fucking drunk. I want you to understand it so that when I say this next part, you won’t completely recoil. If after all is said and done, you still think I’m a heartless bitch, well, I guess we just see shit differently. That’s ok, too.
Wine moms aren’t the enemy. Chill the fuck out. Beer and yoga not your thing? Fine don’t fucking do it, but also shut the fuck up! I’m soooooo goddamn tired of seeing all the haters (yes, I called you haters) across social media lambasting others for doing and enjoying what we cannot.
If I’m witness to one more person calling out a group and saying, “What kind of message is this sending” I will lose my fucking mind. It’s a meme. It’s a photo of some friends that probably live on the same cul de sac or within a couple of miles of one another. Their kids have gone back to school and they’re fucking happy, Claire. How about you mind your own business and get back to scrolling through those gluten-free recipes on Pinterest? That’s your safe space. Stay in your safe space, Claire.
Holy shit, you guys! Imagine there was a commotion every time some thin person posted photos of themselves at a buffet – the entire army of Jenny Craig graduates would revolt. What kind of message are they trying to send? There are countries in abject poverty! So wasteful! Simmer down tater-tot Tammy. It wasn’t that long ago that you were making 2nd and 3rd trips to the taco bar, so chill the fuck out.
I don’t believe the issue to be “sudden onset moral dilemma.” I find it highly unlikely and terribly convenient, what with the timing and all, that once sober, these individuals would suddenly find fault with this behavior. Behavior that previous they had engaged in and considered humorous as well. Being a “wine mom” probably made them feel a part of a social group or network. Now, without it, they’re resentful. That’s all this is. Misplaced anger.
Get your head right. You’re mad because you can’t participate in an activity like others – like normal people. Boo fucking hoo. Don’t go pissing on everyone else’s Shredded Mini Wheats. Be a big boy or girl and accept that you’re different in this regard. Hell, if it helps, you can consider yourself special. You’re so goddamn special. You’re so extra. There, does that feel better?
Why am I such a cunt about this? What makes me uniquely qualified to speak on this topic? Aside from being completely triggered by this nonsense, I’m a recovering alcoholic and bulimic. I was physically dying when I finally gave in to the idea of getting sober. It still took me a few years, however, to wrestle the eating disorder into submission. In many ways, that was the demon I had always wrestled with and the hardest for me to overcome.
Alcohol was a crutch. It was addictive, yes, and I was dependent on it for reasons I didn’t understand until I did a lot of work on myself. But alcohol is a “no thank you” item, ultimately. Not so with food. I couldn’t stop eating. I had to make peace with food – and with myself. That was fucking grueling.
The mind is a terrible place to amble around. For months I tormented myself with thoughts about fat grams and how many pounds that would add. I weighed daily; several times. I never had a quiet moment inside my head when I wasn’t plagued with thoughts about my value being tied to my size and how I was going to correct and control that. 22 years of puking really fucks with your head.
You wanna know what I don’t do? I don’t get on social media to blow up bitches who can plow through a pizza, then go for the cake so I can accuse them of eating disorders.
I don’t pass judgment on people at buffets. Eat your fucking hearts out, you lucky sons of bitches.
You won’t find me drawing attention to the self-professed wine mom who just wants a laugh. She’s just trying to get by, too.
Oh, there’s a gang of them? Marvelous – safety in numbers. Odds are one of them can handle her liquor with more grace and dignity than the other women. That 3rd glass of Chablis hasn’t affected her at all. Not Debra though; everyone knows she’s a lush with a cheatin’ husband and an eating disorder.
Listen, I understand being pissed about not being able to participate in the time-honored tradition of getting white-girl wasted and making a fool of yourself in public. I, too, miss the days of falling off bar stools and having complete strangers tell me that I’m annoying then take pity on me. You have to rise above the desire to hate on those that are amid their glory. I know it burns in the back of your throat like Everclear that you mistook for Vodka – don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about – but you have to face facts: you’re a sniveling tool.
Mind your own business and start enjoying the life that you have. Stop spending so much time and energy focused on Pam and her PTA cronies. You fought for your sobriety so that you could be miserable watching other people get drunk? Really? Sounds like a shit sandwich. You must be a real joy to spend time with. Christmas comes early when you drop by for a visit.
Anyhow, I’m tired of beating this horse. When I see photos of wine moms neglecting their children, engaging in pornographic shit (in front of the kids), endangering the children, or some other form of abuse, then I’ll give a fuck. Until then, it’s none of my fucking business. It’s none of yours either. You’re butt-hurt. This too shall pass. Until then, do some more work.