I’ve never been much of a drinker. That’s probably because I’ve seen firsthand the damage booze can do.
Every day after work, almost without fail, my father would get hammered. “Grown-up hour” started the minute he got home, either with a martini or a glass of Scotch. Then another martini or Scotch. Or three. There was a brief window of time — after he relaxed, before he got mean — when he was approachable with a question or problem.
The weekends were a whole other level. My parents entertained a lot, and Dad’s job as host was bartending, which in the “Mad Men” era meant keeping everybody’s drinks filled. If they weren’t having people over to our house, the two of them would be at someone else’s dinner party. My dad always drove, ferrying what to me was the most precious cargo: my mother, a responsible drinker whom I never saw inebriated. Of course, I worried. I don’t think I ever fell asleep before they got home.
I had no interest in following in my father’s footsteps. With that attitude, at college I was a bit of an outlier. Alcohol abuse was rampant, a rite of passage — without the ceremony. I wasn’t a teetotaler, by any means, and I tried on multiple occasions to fit in. Once, pregaming for a party that seemed important at the time, I bought a bottle of Jim Beam and drank about half of it by myself. All of a sudden, mid-festivities, the liquor hit me. I wound up puking and blacking out. I have no idea how I made it home or up to my top-bunk mattress. I do remember hitting the ground, though. At some point in the night, I fell out of bed onto the floor.
Youth and resilience softened the blows, but I think it’s fair to say some of my classmates learned to be alcoholics then. This week’s cover story suggests they have plenty of company. In “Vermont’s Hangover,” Colin Flanders reports that “more than 60 percent of Vermont residents drink, a figure that’s nearly 10 percent higher than the U.S. average. While most do so within limits, many cannot. Vermont ranks in the top 10 states nationally for per capita alcohol consumption, rates of binge drinking and the share of residents thought to have a diagnosable alcohol-use disorder.”
Throughout adulthood I’ve had a pretty healthy relationship with liquor — until the pandemic, when any distinction between weekdays and weekends melted away and the most reliable succor became an evening glass, or two, of something on the couch. Drinking wine instead of water, I woke up parched at 3 a.m. those nights, with my heart pounding and ears ringing. Also likely related to dehydration: I had a couple of terrible migraines that landed me in the hospital.
One more thing: I’d gained 10 pounds.
Then one day, three years ago, I just made a decision to give up booze. Cold turkey. I immediately started sleeping and feeling better. At that point during the pandemic, there were few events and therefore little need for social lubrication, which made it easier. Abstaining had become my MO by the time life returned, and I realized how hard it is to get through an eight-hour wedding when you’re stone-cold sober.
Sure, there are occasions when I wish my mind were getting altered apace with everyone else’s. And I cheated a few times on vacation. In Spain, vermouth is delicious and dirt cheap. The locals drink it on ice with an orange slice before dinner — a lovely tradition.
Getting pickled is another matter. Drunk people don’t remember the amazing conversation you had. The fraternity of being fucked-up together is, in the end, an illusion. I don’t miss it, thanks to another, more manageable source of comfort and refreshment: the mocktail.
The original print version of this article was headlined “Done Drinking”
This article appears in Mar 19-25, 2025.
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