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THIS CALLS FOR A
TOAST
In a few days, I will be able to drink for the first time in almost
three years. Mind you, I have no intention of doing keg stands or
lining up shots down the length of a bar or guzzling a bottle of
chardonnay. In fact, I have no intention of going to a bar or
even a liquor store. But it will be nice, finally, to be able to
go to a party or out with friends and not have the following
conversation:
“Doug, what’ll you have?”
“Uh, a Coke, please.”
“OK. Want something in it?”
“No, um, straight Coke.”
“Really?! Here, you should try this great beer. It’s made
with organic malt by Trappist monks in Belgium who live in this little
enclave 20 miles from the nearest town and use a recipe supposedly
developed by the Illuminati. . . .”
“Fascinating. Coke is fine, thanks.”
“Oh. Are you sure?”
“Yep, just a Coke. Please.”
“Do you . . . not drink?”
Let me pause here to emphasize that I have no objections to those who
don’t drink – lots of people don’t, for very good reasons, not the
least of which are, of course, the consequences of the pickling of the
liver and the scrambling of the brain. Given a choice between
hanging out with people who don’t drink at all and those whose lives
revolve around the bottle, I’ll take the teetotalers. So I’m not
trying to promote booze here. And now that we’ve established
that, for the purposes of rear-covering should I ever run for political
office and some enterprising blogger digs this up, let’s return to the
conversation.
“Uh, well, no, actually. I don’t drink.”
“Oh.”
Long pause.
“I mean, it’s not that I ‘don’t drink.’ It’s not a principle
thing. I’m on this medication, see, and they tell me that if I
ingest any alcohol, my colon will fall out or something.”
“I see. Well, we have . . . um . . . tonic . . . and some
cranberry juice. And
there’s probably some milk in the
fridge. . . . I suppose there might be Coke without anything already
mixed into it somewhere.”
The problem with this medication is threefold, as I find myself
explaining to those who offer me drinks or wonder why I order root beer
in a bar. This explanation comes forth only after a much more
confusing and awkward conversation than that recounted above; that’s
really just the Reader’s Digest
version. Here, then, are the three problems, with full
details.
Part one of three: When interacting with this medication, alcohol makes
your colon fall out or something. So I’ve been told by more
pharmacists and doctors than I care to count. It seems like every
time I got this medication refilled, the pharmacist takes great care to
emphasize that I must not drink or taste or smell or come within a
two-mile radius of alcohol, or I will get very sick and it will be very
dangerous. I know, I know. No really, it’ll be bad. I
know. I get it. I think I can manage. Seriously, your
colon will fall out or something. You can’t even have cough
syrup.
These repeated warnings are always delivered in the gravest manner
possible, not to mention the most skeptical, as though no one can quite
believe that someone in his mid-twenties can really commit to not
drinking for more than five minutes. Trust me, I’ll
survive. Wouldn’t want my colon to fall out or something.
That, in short, is why I can’t drink.
Part two of three: Because of part one, and because I tend not to want
to divulge my whole medical history or really any components thereof to
everyone I meet, I tend to try to find ways to get around the
not-drinking thing without appearing to be somehow prudish or telling
the sad story of the colon-falls-or-something effect of alcohol on my
system. This involves such acts as feigning indecision over and
over, in hopes that the party host will eventually forget that I have
not placed a drink order, or becoming deeply interested in a
conversation or in staring at the almost-complete set of Aardvark Fancy
magazines on the bookshelf, again in the hope that I will eventually be
forgotten or left to fend for myself. This sometimes works,
though rarely, and when it does, the whole evening is a lot more
comfortable for everyone concerned.
When it doesn’t work, though,
it creates a lot of stammering and bumbling on my part as I try to
avoid giving the appearance of a pious teetotaler while also trying to
keep my colon from falling out or something. In short, it makes
me feel (and look) ridiculous and socially awkward, which, frankly, I
don’t need any additional help with. Eventually, after going
through all of
that, I tell the story about the colon and the medicine and how this
whole unpleasant situation plays out every
single time.
It’s embarrassing and uncomfortable enough to drive a man to drink, if
only I could.
(I read in the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America magazine
about a woman on a similar medication who, when out with friends or at
a party, holds a beer and makes her friends take swigs from it now and
then. This is pretty smart, I have to say, but it requires having
accomplices who are privy to the whole situation. Perhaps I just
need to develop an entourage. That would make my life a lot
easier in many ways, I suppose. One person could also be the
bathroom scout. . . .)
And then, to ease the social tension and reassure people
that I am not a complete misfit, there is Part three of three, which I
always tack onto the end of the whole sequence, and which seems to help
people get back into superficial small-talk mode.
Part three of three: No alcohol means I can’t try your wine no matter
how well it pairs with the risotto or your beer no matter how
great-tasting-less-filling it may be. There’s a lot of alcoholic
swill out there, to be sure, and I feel mildly smug to have an excuse
not to participate in that whole Beaujolais Nouveau con. But
rumor has it there are some swell beverages out there that happen to
have a kick, and I’m sure I’m missing out.
Emphasizing this last point, I find, makes people think I’m
complimenting them on their drink choices, and therefore their
intelligence and sophistication. They start comparing notes on
who’s drinking what, debating whether retro drinks are trendy again or
not, or commenting on the nuanced peppery/citrusy/leathery/compost-y
flavors of the latest Franzia
vintage.
Then, while they’re doing that, I can sneak off and get myself a glass
of water. Shaken, not stirred. With a twist.
On Wednesday, my gastroenterologist told me to stop taking this
particular
medication, effective immediately. In a few days, after it’s out
of my system, I can drink. I’ll be slightly less awkward at
parties. I’ll be able to have the exotic Belgian monk beer, which
may well taste like llama spit, but now I can find out for myself if
this is the case. I’ll be able to have a glass of champagne at my
sister’s wedding next summer. In short, I’ll be able to be a
normal person,
in one small way.
I’ll drink to that.
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