Day 27: feeling flaky.

I think I may have mentioned a little while ago that since my not drinking, my skin has been freaking out. First it was an outpouring of zitterly love. Then I decided to do something about it and applied what I have discovered to be quite an aggressive zit-zap serum. Now my face is flaking off. Like majorly. What I am hoping is that this latest convulsion of ugliness is the chrysalis-shedding moment before the butterfly angel skin flutters prettily into the light. Kind of like from moonscape, to cracked desert surface, to lush, paradise-like oasis. Or maybe I'm just delusional. Considering how my face looks right now, that's probably for the best.

Day 26: one of these kids is not like the others.

A lot of my friends lately have had kids, bought houses, gotten married or gotten pregnant. By choice or by accident they have taken the path of commitment and responsibility; the next step into adulthood. I have done none of these things and am really nowhere near any of them yet. It hasn’t been a conscious choice of avoidance. It’s just that my life hasn’t turned out that way so far. I’m traditionally a bit on the spendy side when it comes to money, hence no house deposit, and I’ve only really attracted commitment-phobic boys lately, hence no hub or bub. I also have a mildly violent independence urge that is probably responsible for the sum of where I find myself right now. And I want to be a rock star. Nappies and mortgages don’t compute well with that. Slap a vow of sobriety on top and you have a seriously individual individual. Of course I have never minded standing out. Being the third kid down in a pack of four (and the second daughter) showing off has been part of my make up since my year dot. I like being the centre of attention, and I have always done things to set myself apart. But I’ve usually had a gang of other alternative types to roll with. Now I find my gang disbanded, preoccupied with the pressures of parenthood and paying the bills. And that might mean turning to a younger set still in party mode, only I don’t drink now so that’s a bit weird too. What’s a sober, single, independently-minded and rock ‘n’ roll-ishly inclined gal to do? You see, the problem is in the incongruousness of my choices. It would be one thing to be the single rock ‘n’ roller. But the rock ‘n’ roll teetotaller? It’s a problem I’ve had for a while. I’ve always been the party animal that also loves reading and bookshops; the fashion and cosmetics junkie who digs on Scrabble; the bass player in the band who goes to bed at 10.30pm to get up for yoga the next morning. Maybe it’s not that weird. Maybe everyone is balancing their own mix of mismatching tastes. Whatever the case, if you choose an unconventional road, you can’t really complain when the crew doesn’t come too. You simply have to rock the path you’re rolling down, even if you’re in a band of one.

Day 25: simple pleasures.

Saturday morning is pretty much my favourite time to be a non-drinker. It feels good to get up at 7am (a sleep in after my weekday 5.30 get-ups) and go to yoga or go for a jog. The world at that time of day is a fresh, calm, happy place. Birds twitter and the sun feels young. It is also particularly satisfying to finish what is quite a lengthy and strenuous yoga class, and to realise you still have two and a half hours of morning at your disposal. For a former booze hound, this is a novelty. Breakfast (basically my favourite meal of the day) is a pleasure too. After a yoga class, you only want to put good stuff in your body and it’s nice to know you’ve really earned what you’re eating: this morning gigantic strawberries, blueberries, yoghurt, oats and cinnamon with a particularly good coffee from The Shop, my favourite café a few doors down from my house. Yumness is goodness. What’s more, on a Saturday I get to write this out here on my balcony with my laptop, sitting in the breeze and morning sunshine. It’s frickin idyllic. My balcony is big and characterful (with its iron lace), and it looks out over my street, which is leafy and has the exact right balance of relaxed activity and nice-vibe quiet. It would certainly be a pity to be missing all this pleasantness. Back in the bad old days I wouldn’t have thought twice about sleeping in until two. Today at two incidentally, I will be enjoying another simple and irresistible pleasure, the pure cuteness that is my four-year-old niece Georgia performing in her end of year ballet recital. To see such tiny dancers doing their level best, and actually doing extremely well, is an experience that owns a unique part of happy. There’s no substitute. And to me, that’s really one of the coolest things about being human and being alive. Contained within the normal constructs of regular living, things like getting up early, being healthy, sitting in the sunshine and being with family and friends, are highs more pure than any drug or drink can manufacture. Let’s not forget though, that simple pleasures like these are not everyone’s experience of regular life. I am well aware that to be a healthy person, in a happy family, living in a beautiful, peaceful, prosperous part of the world is in many ways a rare and luxurious existence. All the more reason not to piss it all away.

Day 24: party freak.

Today the novelty wore off non-drinking. It stopped being a "thing I'm doing", and just became the thing I do. It's a weird place actually. I don't feel inclined to drink at all. I have no pangs for certain drinks. And the thought of that zizzy piss-fuddled feeling behind the eyes vaguely repulses me at this point. But at the same time, I am aware of the limitations that come with being the straight person. As everyone revs up for some of the biggest piss-a-thons of the year, and as I concentrate dutifully on putting together a worthy costume for our work Christmas bash, I cannot quash my visions of a decidedly less than loose party experience. You know, the guess who got stuck talking to the client all night scenario. Or the stark, this is boring realisation. Or being the person the party kids don't want to hang with because your straightness just kinda makes them uncomfortable dude. But even more than how it makes other people feel, how will I feel doing a major bash on kiddy-punch? I like parties. I have been in my time a seasoned "party girl". But to me a party has always meant cutting loose in a major way. It's the big exhale of pent up get your freak on. And letting loose has always meant getting loose. How do you loosen up when you're straighty-one-eighty? I've been faced with this question over the last few days because I've had a few stressy, pissed off episodes. In the usual run of things, after a stressful day I would have swung by the bottle-o on the way home and chilled myself out a little with a glass or two of (probably red) wine. These days I kind of rely on exercise to relax my arteries. But you can't jog yourself into loose party mode. Or can you? Should I hit yoga pre-party and watch some kind of brilliant comedy to help me feel both chilled and jovial? Or are there vitamins I can take to rev up my energy/chatty/laughy/jumpy levels? And more to the point, why do I feel like I'm going to need help to have a fun time? I guess it comes back to a point I've raised before: it can be scary to see things for real. Going into a party with no alco-ammo, what if you discover that in fact you are an unadulterated, unfunny, uninteresting bore? Well, so be it I suppose. Funnily enough, this year I have opted for a costume involving medieval armour. No protection whatsoever from the kind of psychological damage a realisation of the "I'm boring" variety could inflict, but at least I might arrive home with fewer bruises.

Day 23: a wasted night.

Last night got wasted. Not me, the evening itself. What was meant to be a productive listening and jamming session was abandoned in favour of... you'll never guess what.... a session at the pub. But again, not my session at the pub. Only I was the one left feeling pissed (don't worry, the metaphor ends now). People are allowed to go to the pub. I realise this. And it was quite a pleasant evening for a cold bevvy in the warm night air. But we'd made plans. Plans that got discarded in favour of beers with other people. What was worse was that my bass was stranded at Ben's place, so I couldn't even go home and be productive on my own. I guess my anger brought up a couple of things for me. 1. No matter how much you control your own behaviour, other people are still free to mess with your shit. 2. Am I becoming a project monster, repellent to even my closest friends? I guess it's kind of funny that someone else's drinking got in the way of my mission. It's like the relax fairy put a banana skin in the path of the progress robot (me) just for laughs. And maybe it's not a big deal. But I guess the issue I'm really pissed off about isn't a drinking one. It's rudeness. Selfishness. The complete disregard for another person's time, feelings, or the other activities you might have shifted in order to meet the agreed plan. It's shitty behaviour. I hope the beers were good.

Day 22: sweet things.

Chocolate, fizzy drinks, ice cream. I thought after yesterday's unexpected burst of boy bitterness, a little sweetness might be in order. But not too much aye. I have noticed of late a mildly alarming trend in my behaviour that needs to be nipped in the bud. It is the habit of freely allowing myself the aforesaid treats on account of my no longer inhaling highly calorific boozyfizz every weekend. This is a mistake. As you may have noticed, I have slight control-freakish tendencies. I like the idea of doing things perfectly (and live in an almost constant state of disappointment as a result). If I manage successfully to abstain from alcohol, but fail to keep my diet on track EVERYTHING IS RUINED. I've warned you about this. I go to extremes. And yes, being me can be torturous at times. Anyway, so while the odd tonic water or non-diet coke of a night out is AOK, scoffing bickies and Magnums every two seconds is not. Phew. I'm glad we got that sorted. It's funny though, I do seem to have some kind of in-built self sabotage urge designed precisely to antagonise my inner perfectionist. It's like to balance out the yin of not drinking, yang has to come in and eat crappy food and smoke cigarettes (for the record, I haven't been smoking cigarettes, but they have been seeming alarmingly attractive since being off the booze). What's with needing to be bad? Why is it that while I want to be so good, I also feel the need to be evil? I even seem to prefer bad boys. Am I mental?

Well, evil, mental or not, it seems at least some of my efforts are having positive results: 1. I have my first two actual blog followers! A beloved cousin and an old friend admittedly, but committed readers nonetheless. 2. My yoga obsessiveness has inspired another gal pal to start a yoga mini-mission of her own. Way to go! Hot bod summer here we come! 3. And my band mate Ben has done some work on the new song we recorded on Sunday. I'm going to swing by and check it out tonight. Fun! So by the looks of it, if I can just manage to banish my boy bitterness, reign in my sugar habit, and relax my grip on the controls a tiny, everything's pretty much sweet.

Day 21: clarity.

I think my brain is starting to work better. At least a bit. Over the last few days I have finished three books (including one enormous non-fiction one that I've been trying to wade through for almost two years), and have done a "three-coffee" rated Sudoku in one easy sitting! Like wow. (Oh yeah, my Sudoku book has a natty little rating system for how hard each one is, based on coffee cups. One coffee cup = easy as bro. Two coffee cups = me need to fink a bit. Three coffee cups = get outta town. Cool aye. Just kidding. For some reason I now feel the need to remind you that I'm cool and I play in a band.) It also dawned on me that the boy who has only ever given me troubles, and yet whom I have found it very difficult to erase from my memory banks, is a bad, selfish, injuring, emotional coward without a genuinely chivalrous bone in his body. True chivalry takes balls and class. So cheers to the real gentlemen, and cheers to the clever lasses, and cheers to seeing things clearly every now and then.