Picture it: 2002, in the kitchen of a restaurant in Chelsea, New York City. A young Odd Broad had had too much caffeine and remarked to her coworker, in a thick Massachusetts accent, "Jeez, I'm shaking like I've got the DT's!"
This was a phrase my grandmother used to say. Not that she ever had the DT's, of course, she rarely ever drank. I suppose I'd never really thought about the meaning behind it. Either way, my friend certainly didn't find it very amusing.
"Do you know what that means, Sarah?"
Shit. "Um, (pause), sure, isn't it when you shake because you're going through withdrawals from...drinking?"
"Yes, that's exactly what it means. I just wanted to make sure you knew. Sorry, I have a father in the program."
Yikes. If I could have disappeared into the tuna tartar, I would have. I felt bad. Later, I learned that this girl was also in the program. And then I felt very bad.
And I digress. What I really wanted to tell you was that for the next two weeks, Hubby and I are giving up drinking. For what it's worth, that sentence doesn't really sound nice in polite conversation. If you don't believe me, try saying it out loud sometime.
I'm giving up drinking for the next two weeks. Nine inconsequential words, but when linked together in this fashion, it does cause one to wonder:
Why are you giving up drinking for the next two weeks? Do you have some sort of...problem?
Do I? Am I addicted? Is drinking white wine on weeknights...bad? Is wanting to drink bad? Do I need it? Can I stop? Will I get the DT's?
I broached the subject with my mother and sister last Saturday night and the two of them burst into giddy hysterics, right there in the middle of Victoria's Diner. I think what finally set them off was when I told them I thought I should maybe "talk to someone" about my rampant drinking.
"Here we go, now she's an alcoholic!" Reader, they could barely get the words out. There were tears of laughter in their eyes, for crying out loud. The waiters were staring.
Not that they're heartless or unconcerned; I guess they just know me all too well. I suppose I can be prone to dramatics; and maybe slightly impressionable with a dash of hypochondria. (I was the type of child who longed for poor eyesight, just so I could wear glasses. I read Go Ask Alice and wondered if I too might turn into a drug addicted hippie living in the late 1960's. When I bought a box of caffeine pills in college, Sissy accused me of trying to become addicted, just to get attention. That sort of thing.)
And so my relatives merely assumed I was being melodramatic, inventing a situation, if you will. But honestly, I do sometimes worry that I may be pickling my liver in Riesling and Sauv blanc! And the idea of having a bit of a detox is definitely an alluring one.
My sister continues to be supportive. "One day at a time," she text messages me. Smart ass. She also called to inform me there's a weekly AA meeting in her neighborhood every Tuesday evening, if I'd like to attend. "Let go and let God," I text back.
It's day four of my recovery now. I'll keep you posted.




