I don’t fantasize about drinking anymore. Which is crazy. But I sure used to.
I’d glance at people enjoying a lunch on a gorgeous spring day, with a fresh basket of bread and wine in glasses that catch the light.
Laughing and clinking glasses and sipping while eating and chatting.
It’s weird that I fantasized about doing what they were doing, because the reality is there’s no way I would have enjoyed sipping one dainty glass of wine over a 90 minute lunch.
That would be miserable. If I had to be there, I’d be done with my wine and wondering why no one was ordering more. I’d try to hurry things along so I could stop obsessing about how dumb it is to drink a few sips of alcohol and not even worry about not feeling the effect.
I heard someone say once that she was wishing she could sit in a lovely little French cafe with a friend and a glass of champagne. And then she said the voice in her head said, “Bitch, you don’t drink like that.”
Exactly. I didn’t, I can’t, and I won’t.
For me, it’s just easier not to drink at all.