Dating : Brief Reprieve

As part of the neither here nor there series — 2.2

It is now the beginning of February and I am fully immersed back into the frenzy of my work. With no time to waste time, I fear I may have lost the relief of writing daily as an outlet for my thoughts — and with nowhere to escape to, they may drive me fully mad at last.

Saturday brought some relief, not only because it was the first day I was able to write, but also because I’ve given up drinking — and to wake up without a hangover is a special kind of self-righteousness.

I spent the morning inside the gym and on top of the stairmaster, and then relocated to my friend Nash’s apartment around midday. We have pledged sobriety together, as well as abstention from sugar for the next thirty days — transforming our friendship into something of a personal AA, if nothing else. Today we’re on day seven of said abstention, and have so little energy from this dietary change that we eat breakfast bowls of fresh fruits and chia seeds before sinking into the couch and onto our phones for three hours unabated. In spite of this exhaustion and the major adjustment from a life of Pinot Grigio to one of sparkling water and lemon, I remain steadfastly committed to the improvements I may see in my life without alcohol, or for 30 days at least.

I wouldn’t say I have a drinking problem, but rather that we all seem to. I drink modestly, often 2–3 times a week, but it almost always affects my productivity the next day by way of piercing, intolerable anxiety. Everyone I know who doesn’t drink seems to always have better skin and mental capacity, as well as a general sense of superiority over others, and I have realised this is something I simply must have for myself. The only reservation I have about sobriety is that some of my best writing seems to be done after a glass or two or three of a certain kind of Merlot — and my writing suffering on account of abstention is something I simply might not be able to tolerate.

Only time will tell.

In the evening I went to the beach with my girlfriends Pammi and Dayle. We lay out linen kikois and rested our belongings against the rocks. I swam and read my 1200 page book by David Foster Wallace, and listened to girls talking about diets with bodies far better than my own. It’s certainly not the most important thing, but I’ve always been frighteningly self-conscious about my body in a way I suspect most other women have as well. I workout multiple times a week and eat reasonably well, but can’t accept both the curves and shapelessness that seems to occur simultaneously across my body.

There are many intolerable things about being a self-conscious woman in a bathing suit on the beach, no matter one’s shape or size. Sometimes I will be seeing someone intimately, and dread warm weather and the possible moment it offers for us to be on the beach together, with my breasts, buttocks, thighs and arms on display for them to turn their face toward and see. This happens often and always, and even if they’ve put that same face between my thighs in the dim of the night.