High maintenance

How'd that Dry January work out for you?

Just a few more days until the Dry January folks can get back to tipsiness as usual. I won’t be among them.

No, no, nooo. I did not give up drinking this month. Are you new here? Look the world is enough of a mess already without unleashing an unmedicated, menopausal woman onto it.

Here’s the thing: Except for very special occasions, and not in a lame-ass, everyday’s-a-holiday kind of way, I dispensed with daily drinking years ago. But I still enjoy my glasses of wine at the end of a work week. It’s an evening ritual that starts shortly before we sit down to dinner. I usually draw the line at a couple of glasses. I know, where’s the fun in that? But it works for me and, I believe, those around me. It’s an inexpensive investment in the future of my attitude.

Edgar Degas, In a cafe, between 1875 and 1876, Oil on canvas, via Internet Archives

Also, I am a terrible day drinker. Pour me a glass of bubbly at noon and I’m asleep by 2:00. This coming from the girl who represented her sorority for a Greek Week beer chugging contest. That was some values-based role modeling at its finest.

Let me be clear, though. I’m not making light of the dangers of overconsumption. Addiction ruins lives. Every one of us knows someone who is in that kind of struggle, if they’ve lasted this long, and those of us fortunate enough to not bear that cross personally likely have other forms of escapism, whether substance or diversion, that we need to examine. For the record, I’m still working on being in the moment with myself and all my flaws. I am all too aware of everything I’m not, and it sometimes keeps me up at night.

For me, though, a month of teetotaling is not where I need to put my energy right now, or maybe ever. Moreover, I’m not convinced that even Dry January participants are really putting their energy there.

I should probably hold off on such accusations until the truly dry ones are fully rehydrated. They might be a bit of a cranky bunch right now. That said, bolstered by our most recent crash course in dodging teams of irate people, I’m taking my chances.

Davide D'Amico, via Wikimedia Commons

I’ll admit that there’s research to disprove my suspicions. In February of last year, CivicScience, a consumer analytics platform, offered Dry January statistics suggesting that a “whopping 25%” of all drinking Americans 21 years old and up completed the program successfully. That’s an impressive figure, but without mention of a sample size or a definition of success, I’m skeptical. Were they really dry, or just dryer? Dryish? Damp? Cali-sober?

More Americans are now using weed everyday than are drinking daily.

The report said only 1 in 5 people substituted cannabis for the alcohol they gave up. But four months after the Dry January buzz died down, they shared a different report: Daily Cannabis Use On the Rise Since 2020.

“The total percentage of U.S. adults who say they use cannabis dropped over the past year, primarily due to a decline in casual / occasional cannabis users. However, that overall decline coincides with an increase in the number of daily users.”

I don’t know. Maybe these analysts are getting kick-backs to normalize the trend du jour. I dug deeper and scored big. According to data collected across four decades from the National Survey on Drug Use and Health, more Americans are now using weed everyday than are drinking daily.

I called my friend, the assistant general manager at the local dispensary, to ask about sales in January. She said it’s been bonkers there this month but can’t vouch for that having been true in past years. Fair enough. Then again, recreational marijuana has only been legal for 18 months in this state, so we’ve only got one other January to provide any sort of real comparison.

No, you didn’t miss it. I’ve offered no solid links and nothing but sloshy data. Correlation, causation, meow, meow. Don’t look at me like that. What I am getting at is that I think a lot of the Dry January folks have a tool in their toolbox they’re not talking about, and we might need to change the official name to High January.

It’s not that I begrudge the sober-erratic their gummies, or that they chased them with unlimited cocktails on Inauguration Day. It’s all about our relationship with the cross-fade, right? Dry January is 31 days to get better acquainted with how we might be letting our habits distract us from the real work of showing up fully-present and aware of who we are.

I’m not a dry or high January girl. No weekday weed for me. Honestly, I’m worse as a cannabis-user than I am as a day drinker. I’ve known that for at least 20 years, but somehow I keep bumping up against new opportunities to learn. If you want to feel better about your relationship with stupidity, you’ll appreciate the supporting evidence below.

Exhibit A:

My closest girlfriends and I are enjoying a local overnight together, a petite retreat to get away from annoying children, irritating partners, the film of dust on top of the refrigerator that we refuse to clean. Men are not allowed to join us, but one woman’s then-husband turns up to drop off a pan of brownies. With a wink and a grin he wishes us a good time and slips off.

Pot brownies. I don’t usually partake. I have nothing against those who do, there’s just a lack of purpose for me. The few times I indulged while still in school didn’t bring me to any enhanced state of being. Granted, there were liquid amendments going in simultaneously, so maybe discernment was the only thing truly lacking. Anyway, no sense wasting good Maui wowie. I was fine to cede my leafy nirvana to someone else.

But brownies. People, chocolate is my kryptonite.

I devoured one.

Feeling nothing after 20 minutes, I ate a second one. As usual, the excitement was lost on me.

Until it wasn’t.

Two hours later, the couch and I were pair bonded, committed to one another until parted by death, and I was pretty sure the latter was close at hand.

Exhibit B:

After a week of sleeping fitfully, I am unraveling. It’s time to up my game. Before bed, I grab a tincture rattling around in the vanity drawer, squirt a dropper-full into my mouth, and hit the sack.

Remarkably, I sleep soundly. But in the morning, I’m dysfunctional. Standing makes everything swim. My eyes are too big for my head. I take my 9 o’clock Zoom call in bed and keep the camera off. My colleagues are more than sympathetic when I tell them I’ve been hit with a terrible case of vertigo.

After we wrap the meeting, I find my way back to the bathroom and the vial of elixir from which I dosed myself the night before. Could it have gone bad? I don’t remember it tasting off. Heaven only knows when we got the stuff. I feel like death on a cracker.

There are multiple bottles. Why didn’t I notice that last night? I’m blaming sleep deprivation. I take them all out for a better look. The CBD is cinnamon flavored. I don’t remember anything cinnamon flavored. And there are two identical bottles of Hemp tincture with “▵ 8 THC” printed across the bottom of the label.

I don’t really know what I’m dealing with here. This is my husband’s stash. He thought it might take his mind off the painful consequences of playing football and lacrosse when his body was forty years younger. Side note: It doesn’t.

I unscrew the caps and stick my nose over the openings. The Delta 8 is not remotely cinnamony. My wobbly gears are turning.

Hey, Siri. What is Delta 8 THC?

Okay, I found this on the web: “Delta-8 THC is similar to delta-9 THC, which is a compound in the cannabis plant that produces a high.”

Produces a high. Shit. I don’t have vertigo. I’m stoned.

Exhibit C, which by now stands for can’t do cannabis:

It’s late fall, as in just a few months ago. I attend a gathering with friends and acquaintances. We’re not there to party, but someone brings the hostess a bag of twinkie and proceeds to brew a batch of hot tea. There are small Japanese-style cups available for the taking, and it all feels rather ceremonial. But knowing what I know about my intolerance, I decline. Besides, it’s a weeknight.

The ganja-giver and home grown herbi-culturalist, unaware of my complicated history, offers me a baggie full of flower to bring home. I’m almost afraid to touch it, but being of a generous nature, I think about the desires of others who may or may not share my home with me. And then I think that I might need to know what to tell them about this special souvenir, so I ask for a sample of someone else’s tea and take the very smallest of sips.

Later, back in my usual surrounds and up to my usual unexciting activities, my husband’s voice begins to sound like it’s coming from too far away. I can’t process what I’m reading or, in fact, be sure I'm reading anything at all. The room undulates.

What the blazes?

It couldn’t have been more than a teaspoon full, that tiny taste at the meeting, three hours ago. How is this even possible? But I know the feeling, and I know how to deal with it. I put myself to bed.

The next day, without a campaign to give me a start/stop date or a cheering section on Reddit, I tell myself I never need to take that test again. Done. Finished.

That’s the intention, anyway.

~Elizabeth

Now it’s your turn. Have you been a Dry January participant this year? How’s it going? Or not going? Speaking of intentions, some months ago I recommitted to the idea that joy can be a strong antidote to the heaviness around us. There is a lot of serious stuff happening, things we need to pay close attention to and act on as we can. But I am simultaneously trying to stay attached to playfulness.

What about you? How are you finding ways to keep from sinking? Your comments definitely help me see the bright side, so I hope you’ll take a few minutes to join the conversation. No matter what, liking and sharing this post will do more than you know to help bring new readers to Chicken Scratch. Thank you for that!

You can also lift up this work with a paid subscription. Just $5 a month will support more essays like this and help keep independent writers going strong. Or you can chunk some spare change in the tip jar by making a one-time contribution here.