Trying Dryness

I like most alcoholic beverages, if you must know. There's a short list of the ones I don't like—Campari is too bitter, I'm not sure what I'd do with crème de menthe, and I managed to get through the entire period in history when Zima was available without getting around to drinking one. Anything else, hey, open another bottle.

But for a number of reasons, I decided to go through June without drinking at all. Nothing. (Well, some friends are having a party but just that one night.) It's been a week, and I can report no cravings, shakes, delirium tremens, or urges to buy Sterno and strain it through cheesecloth into a shot glass.

But still, something seems to be missing. I've had wine with dinner just about every night for the past 20 years or so. I'd no more say "I'm having wine with dinner" as if it were something special than I would say "I'm breathing air with lunch." I have only a thin veneer of civilization and will eat out of the stew pot or whatever, watching TV (in the bad old days) or reading, so I think I can say that I've had wine with dinner more consistently than I've used a plate or a table. (I'm not proud of this, mind you, but it's a blog and if you only say good things about yourself you won't have nearly enough material.)

So. Anyway. Wine with dinner, and various spirits before and after if they're around. Rum in the summer, whiskey in the winter. Other yummy things, eaux de vie and so forth, apple and pear brandies, high-end beers, it's all good.

But just to sort of hit a kind of pharmacological reset, I decided to have nothing in June and one drink a night in July, just to see what happens. One expected consequence is that I'm much sharper in the evenings. Who knew? I'm busier lately and this newfound sharpness allows me to sit on the sofa, pet the cat, and crank out the work on the laptop.

I find I can work even when physically exhausted, because mentally I'm still fine. If I can move my eyeballs and fingertips, I can work. It's like a mild form of locked-in syndrome: getting off the couch would take an effort, but I can crank out the mental labor like Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking, at least, compared to myself with two or three drinks down the hatch.

Another effect I halfway expected was a recalibration of life's pleasures. Tonight I did some work and at one point I decided I wanted a treat. I closed the laptop and strolled uptown, heading for the ice-cream parlor. I smelled honeysuckle. I saw the season's first firefly. I looked at the 19th-century houses, drowsing among the gathering shadows. And then the trip in reverse. with a small coffee ice-cream cone in my hand. Such innocent pleasures. Too much ice cream might make you fat, but I can't imagine how it could land you in jail or lose you your job.

Now, this is temporary. In a matter of weeks I expect to be back to my old tricks, stumbling down the sidewalk, whooping and hollering, with Keith Richards on one side of me and Dionysus on the other. The stuff just plain tastes good and I like the buzz. But just for a while, it's nice to keep things simple. A few pretzels, a glass of lemonade, an ice-cream cone. It's a warm evening, and to be honest, a glass of some Alsatian pinot gris would go down nicely right now. But wait a few weeks. For the moment I'm feeling about innocence the way people years ago talked about New York—I might not want to live in innocence permanently, to be sure, but I'm mildly surprised and rather pleased to find that it's kind of a nice place to visit.