This summer has simultaneously been the shortest and the longest I’ve had in a while. From moving apartments at the beginning of June, to unexpected hiking accidents, to picking up new contracts that make me work literally all the time; I have basically had zero time off. Throw in random events, and birthdays, and weddings (oh my!), I’ve been pretty much running around at 90 miles per hour for the past three months. For the last few of weeks or so I’ve had the intention of giving myself some time to do absolutely nothing, but then people would text me about buying tickets for Ellie Goulding or checking out a trailer park mall, and my FOMO would have me out the door in 20 minutes.
Needless to say, I’m still tired and that’s probably not going to change anytime soon.
But I’m sick of feeling shitty. I’m over constantly feeling achy and gross. My skin looks like crap, my headaches are coming back (thanks for the migraines, dad), the sound my neck makes when it cracks is truly horrifying, and I just generally don’t feel good.
So I’m taking drastic measures before my birthday vacation which will inevitably be filled with buckets of beer, 85 degree heat in September, and I’ll probably throw up at least once. It’s time to get serious. Not only am I cutting out dairy for a while (Goodbye, cheese, I think I’ll miss you most of all) and hitting the gym for real on top of the running I already do, I’ve decided to do the unthinkable.
I’m cutting out alcohol.
Now, I’m not the “a glass or two of sparkling wine” girl that everyone knows and loves. The minuscule portion, the smidgen of my blood that hails from the Emerald Isle has latched onto my 65 percent Irish best friend and just thrived. I’m the girl who tweets this before going to an afternoon showing of American Ultra. And while my tolerance has thanked me immensely, my sober self is not super thrilled.
I’ve reached the point where I don’t know where my hangovers stop and feeling like I haven’t slept in days begins. I’m at the point where my fridge has seen more beer inside of it than actual, consumable food. In less then three months, I’ve only bought groceries twice, but I somehow now own seven growlers. It’s excessive. And it’s time for a change.
I’m writing this while on my second cup of dandelion root tea, and yes, I’m not too proud to admit that I wish it was a greyhound. I may have just spent money on creating my first in-home bar, but those bottles at the bottom are going to collect a slight layer of dust because they will not be cracked for a while. I’ve officially ripped a pore strip off of my face while eating drunk chips and guac in bed and been able to smell alcohol on it, (At least I think…it could have just been the G&T on my bedside table) so I need to dry out.
I’m hanging up the beer goggles, putting away the flask, and using the lemons and limes from my bar as additives to make drinking water seem more appealing. The emotion that coincides with deciding to dry yourself out for a bit is a weird one. I’m excited to a certain extent, because I’m ready to feel like a healthy person and get my voice back again; seriously, I’ve sounded like Lindsay Lohan at 8 a.m. since July 4th. But there’s a part of me that’s pretty bummed to say goodbye to my happy hour beers in favor of happy hour soda waters and Diet Cokes. I like drinking, and it kind of feels like saying goodbye to my friends from summer camp.
Regardless of my feelings of uneasiness, I think I’m prepared. It’ll be an interesting few weeks being the sober one. Hopefully along the way maybe I’ll observe some shenanigans from drunken idiots instead of being the idiot being observed, save some dollars (more for that birthday vacation), and stop waking up with Morning Star Buffalo Chik’n breath and a headache.
So for now, thanks for the offer to buy me a shot, but I’m the boring one who’s just having water.
That is until my Irish gal pal hands me a beer and says, “Keep up, loser.” What? I’m a sucker for peer pressure. .
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