Giving Up Beer And The Hidden Consequences That Come With It

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In lieu of a 2015 New Year’s resolution exercise plan, I decided to give up beer. The main reason is because it has a lot of carbs. I’m from St. Louis and I love all things Budweiser (not because of the taste, but because of hometown pride) so I knew trying this out would cause stress, but I thought, “fuck it, let’s do this.”

My second reason stems from Ed Sheeran. He said he stopped drinking beer and lost twenty pounds — what a ginger. But whatever, the Ed Sheeran diet! That voice! Finally, my very best friend and sorority sister just didn’t like the way carbonation felt in her mouth, so she never drinks anything bubbly. I like bubbles so much that I drink sparkling water. How pretentious. But if she can do it, so can I.

This was the worst possible decision I could’ve ever made. I literally would’ve rather hired a ‘roided out Shaun T. to physically rip my ass out of bed every morning. He is the scariest man alive. However, I’m sticking with my resolution because I refuse to admit defeat, especially when I’ve inflicted this challenge upon myself. Beer is so great. It is so, so great. I miss it dearly, and it hasn’t even been two weeks.

I need you to understand that I love all alcohol products equally. Give me a glass of cab with a steak. Give me a glass of sauv blanc with some tilapia. Give me a vodka-soda when I’m with my bitches, a martini with a twist when I’m in Midtown, a margarita on Cinco de Mayo, and dammit, a shot of Jameson on St. Patty’s Day. Don’t even get me started on the brunch options. I love it all.

However, what I’ve discovered on my fifteen-day journey so far is that beer is an essential part of being (a degenerate) in my generation.

It is always the group go-to.

If a bar offers pitchers, buckets, or towers, you better believe the degenerates I consider my friends will be all up on that. Now what the fuck do I do? I have to be the girl who orders separately? I hate making a spectacle of myself, only with waitresses. For some reason, I just want them to love me. When the whole table agrees on beer and I order a vodka-soda on a separate tab, who do YOU think the waitress now hates? Do you see my issue?

It is always the cheapest.

I’ve lost count of how many times Bank of America has emailed me overdraft notifications. I’m really bad at accepting how fucking poor I am. I had $4.76 in my bank account and then decided to go to SantaCon in Boston. I think they call this denial. Beer is ALWAYS the cheapest option. I mean, it’s always on special. When a bartender tells you Bud Light bottles are $3, you fucking order one, especially in New York. Shit ain’t cheap here. You don’t then ask if they have well drink specials because they will look at you with disdain and confusion. “Did you hear me, bitch? I said three dollar beers!” your waiter will think. The only way around asking that question is by doing research on bars in your area that have well drink specials, but I sleep until 1 p.m. most days, so I don’t have time for research.

The options are endless.

Do you even know how many beer selections there are in America, domestics and imports combined? Holy shit. Say you decide to be less like your college self for a day and you don’t want to drink piss water on this particular evening. You ate sushi for lunch — you deserve it. Brooklyn Lagers all around, and a Guinness for the gentleman in the peacoat! I CAN’T DO IT. Say it’s summertime and I fancy a nice wheat beer, such as a Hoegaarden. I’m not sure if I actually like that beer or if I just like the name, but ugh, irrelevant, I STILL CAN’T DO IT. Last but not least, say my friends decide to go to a microbrewery one afternoon. The options, the flights, the samples, oh my! I CAN’T DO IT. Have you ever asked for a wine list at a microbrewery? The bearded, man-bunned, flannel-wearing guy in front of you will EAT YOU WITH HIS GLARE. Giving up beer can be life-threatening.

You absolutely must drink it while watching sports, both live and at bars.

Beer and sports: they go together like NFL players and courtrooms. You just can’t get enough. I can’t insult an entire subculture by ordering a vodka-cranberry during a Blues game. This is bro time. Respect it. Ryan Gosling told us that being a dude man bro does not involve ordering a vodka-cranberry (see: Crazy, Stupid, Love). Not to mention, holding a bottle of beer in a crowd is much less agitating than holding a glass of wine or a mixed drink. If anyone bumps you, half of your drink is on the floor or on your shoes. In some extreme cases, people think someone vomited and you’ve made a scene.

It is a stiff-arm to our friend, the blackout.

It’s Saturday night and you are ready. You are so fucking ready for this night. Fucking Joe or Alex or Stephanie or whoever you’re banging will be out tonight, fuck yes. You get to the bar and you start pounding mixed drinks and shots of Fireball, you predictable son of a bitch. All of a sudden, you realize you are near blackout and should try and slow your roll because it’s 11 p.m., you’ve only been there for half an hour, and your slam hasn’t shown up yet. What do you do? Switch to beer. Straight-up stiff-arm that blackout. Switching to beer and chilling out on the shots is the only way, unless you have drugs. Now you’re ready to see your bangalang bud at your prime: kind of drunk. You two can now cross that blackout threshold as a team. This is no longer a thing for me. Zero to one hundred really fuckin’ quick. I’ve been banned from three bars since New Year’s Eve.

Fifty percent of you right now are like, “Chill bitch, go get a six-pack and stop yelling.” I’m with you. I’d love nothing more than to feel that bubbly, foamy, cold, golden drink that makes my insides happy go down my throat, but I am dedicated. Determined. I am so fucking pissed at myself, but I got this. Believe in me, people. My friends might kill me, but they were likely to do that anyway. Gotta go, I think Sebastian Stan just walked in front of this coffee shop, and I have a duty to my Snapchat followers to photograph any and all celebrity sightings.

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