New Years Eve
by Ren Austin

New Years Eve is approaching, and once again I am despondent.  It seems everyone is having the time of their lives, dancing away the night, sipping champagne and kissing merrily at midnight. I am despondent because I am a nondrinker. For me this is a night of sitting in the corner, watching the clock tick slowly away.

I am starting to think sobriety is overrated. I can hardly remember why I quit. But I think I've been misled. My life is good, but without the obliterating effects of alcohol, some minutes move slowly. Some minutes are best seen through the light of 6 beers. I have endured these minutes for 18 years.

The holidays are particularly difficult.  So I avoid the drinking parties in my neighborhood. And I am thinking about having a non-drinking party, but what’s the point? Who comes to a party without alcohol? It’s clear that drinkers are the cool ones. TV can tell you that.  All the happy people are drinking a certain brand of beer.  All of the happy people are gathered around a wreath, or under mistletoe, or at an office party, with a glass of something fabulous in their hand.  It’s not that I don’t want to drink. It’s that I can’t.

I never could fit in at parties. There is something strangely wrong with my hair, and my thighs are too large. I think that is why I started drinking in the first place. Alcohol is a cure-all for social awkwardness. After only two or three beers I was much funnier, and much prettier. I exuded confidence. Even dancing came easy.

Then, in 1994, the worst happened. I decided to quit. I was a fine alcoholic for quite a while. But it was time to look for a new vocation. I began taking those little quizzes on the Internet. Those “Are You Drinking Too Much?” quizzes. I hedged my answers, making myself fit into the “moderate to heavy drinking" category. It wasn’t an easy decision to stop. I didn't kill anyone, I didn't harm myself. I don't even know what happened, and that’s a bad sign. But when I stepped off the plane in New Orleans, I began drinking right away. I bought a funny smelling drink from a little stand on the street. I wasn't sure what was in it, and I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up in the bathtub. I felt like I had contracted swine flu and meningitis at the same time. Luckily my husband is a kind fellow. Without him, I would still be there, looking for my car keys, stranded in the hotel lobby without a reservation.

I asked him to call 911.

"I am not calling 911, you shouldn't have drank so much. “He said.

"Go get me an IV bag and I will insert it into myself."

I made him miss the flight back to Dallas, and he had tickets to the Cowboys game. The very next day, I quit drinking. I went to an AA meeting, and scared out of my mind that I might have to keep going there, I never drank again. There were certainly times, New Years, Halloween, every day I had children, when a little blurriness, a little fogginess around the edges would have been oh so helpful.

I am afraid of the holidays. Family gatherings are the worst. Sitting on a bed of fire ants would be more enjoyable. I like my family, but they drink like fish. My father in-law asks me every single year if I would like some wine.

"Oh come on," he says, "why not just have one."

This is perhaps the dumbest question he has asked me, and he repeats it year after year. I have never had just one drink, and I imagine I never will. Recently out with a friend, she ordered a glass of wine and I had a coke. She had one glass. She didn’t ever order another one. My anxiety climbs when people drink responsibly. I was surprised and appalled. How is that done?

"You're not having another one? Why not?” I asked her.

"I don't know, I just don't feel like having another one."

"That’s not right, I need you to order two more."

"But I don't want two more."

"I can’t go out with you anymore if this is how you are going to act."

With the legalization of marijuana, I thought for a minute smoking could be my avenue to "the party scene". Then I remembered smoking in college one time.  I had a vivid and horrible hallucination that I was burning on fire. No one ever offered me anything else. What a lucky break.

I used to wish I had grown up in the hippie period. I had the wavy hair already. I wanted to protest anything. I wanted to live in Height Ashbury, sing with Janice Joplin and go to Scarborough Fair. The slacker lifestyle was a great fit for me. Unfortunately, I would still end up sitting on the hill, looking down at Woodstock, wondering if I should try acid.

So this Christmas, I will suffer as usual. For New Years, I am going to try my Peruvian friend’s tradition. She puts on a backpack and puts everything in it that she treasures. Then she walks around the block, thinking of all her blessings.

I imagine neighbors will look out their windows. Maybe they will be slightly buzzed, talking easily with each other and wearing tight little dresses. I wonder if they will think, “there goes that strange lady again.”

But this year I won’t regret sitting in the corner watching others have fun. This year I will leave the champagne sitting in the pantry, waiting for the relatives to show up.