Drinking and dating internet dating at 40 guardian
We had mutual friends, this very nice guy and I, and to not tell him would risk deception by omission — what if someone let it slip before I could tell him? ”A group of kids played tag around us, their moms yelling at them to slow down, you just ate. The moms looked on, vanilla scoops dripping into their wedding rings.“I’m fine,” I said. I could picture it: the noncommittal “Okay,” the slow eye shift, the fumble for the polite exit.I was convinced: The shrewd shopper was there, under their skin, evaluating me.This was never something I discussed with any man I was with.My body, the object of so many long looks and so much commentary, was not mine.My voice was not mine either; when I bothered to lift it, it was shushed, corrected.I found friends and began to take the act more public: Someone once discovered me drinking Everclear from a coffee mug, and it became the hilarious story people associated with me.
I consoled myself with these platitudes, even while I was still convinced they were lies. The requirements that haunted my girlhood were all there: the call to be pretty, pleasing, a surface to adoringly reflect whoever looked into it.
But now it was the time in our date to tell him that I was an alcoholic, and I was finding it very, very hard.“What’d you get? I’d made a magical connection on some random sick day: Drinking this did something incredible. I had an unhappy, clumsy childhood in a small rural town in Kentucky.
The evening would end with the limp handshake reserved for non-closers, and I would go home to hang over my Big Book from AA and cram handfuls of Lucky Charms into my open, keening mouth. The biggest kid, good and frantic on sugar, landed another in a mean headlock and began to throttle him back and forth. One of my earliest memories is of standing on top of the toilet to reach the children’s cough syrup in the bathroom cabinet. I had no way of putting words to this feeling, but my heart was roiling with it.
” It drowned out, by mere inches, the craving for a drink, my life’s loudest itch. My body essentially began to scream: vomiting, fever, vertigo.
So, in the summer of 2005, before my last year of college, I quit. I curled on my bedroom floor, trying not to shit my pants.
By age 20, I had a drink most mornings before I had my first coherent thought.