High Sobriety (10 page)

Meagan's Friday-afternoon drinks with her husband became her sanctuary. He'd finish work early, and they'd park the kids in front of a DVD while they sat out on the verandah, sharing a bottle of wine. ‘You'd think, thank God it's Friday, we've got through another week. That was our way of unwinding and relaxing.' The ritual quickly turned into a habit on Saturdays and Sundays as well; three o'clock marked the start of drinking time. Lunches with her girlfriends were also boozy occasions. ‘We've all got small children, and we get together every couple of months, and for me that meant lots of wine and then coming home and having more wine, and sneaking out to have some ciggies by the pool, where the kids couldn't see me. I'd have two or three glasses of wine at lunch, and then we might go to another venue after lunch and have two or three more. I'd probably end up, over the course of the afternoon, having a full bottle of wine. Then I'd get home and have more. Initially it was a bit of a joke, and you'd be on Facebook the next day saying “ouchy” or “I had to ride the porcelain bus last night,” but it started to get to a point where I got really sick from the hangovers.'

Like me, Meagan decided to take a break from drinking after one hangover too many. It was the day of her son's fifth birthday party. She'd spent months planning food, decorations, games, and goodie bags for the superhero-themed party, but she woke up ‘shaking and grey'. The previous evening she'd dropped in to see a neighbour, with no intention of getting drunk. She only had three glasses of wine, but they were large ones. On an empty stomach, and with her petite 49-kilogram frame, they went straight to her head. ‘When I have too much to drink, I'll often smoke as well, and that made it a lot worse. I was just slayed the next morning. I spent so much effort and time in planning this to be such a special day for him, and then I felt like shit that morning. I just thought, there's no way in a million years that last night was worth today. I was terribly ashamed about being hung-over. To me, it just showed that I had kind of lost control.'

My editor at work, who married and started a family relatively early, has long been fascinated by my drinking habits. She often asks me what I get out of staying up all night binge drinking, a term that seems to be shrouded in virtual quotation marks every time she uses it. Recently, she told her daughter Beth about my alcohol ban, describing the prolonged period of partying that preceded it.

‘How old is Jill?' asked Beth, who, like many 19-year-olds, gets on the piss most weekends.

‘She's nearly 35,' my editor replied.

‘Gaawwd. Thirty-five?' Beth sighed. ‘Am I still going to be doing this when I'm that old?'

Just as I presumed that I'd give up my heavy drinking when I settled down, Beth thinks that hitting her thirties will change her habits — as if some arbitrary line in the sand will magically appear, and wine and cocktails will begin to taste like drain water. The reality is, turning 35, getting married, or becoming a mother might not change anything if booze is, and always has been, at the centre of your social life. If I was the only 30-something woman I knew getting trashed at the weekend and cutting a solitary figure on the dance floor, it wouldn't be long before I questioned my lifestyle choices. If Meagan was bringing bottles of champagne to afternoon tea while the other mums enjoyed chai lattes, it might be awkward enough to prompt some self-reflection. As it is, we slip into the social norm so seamlessly that it takes a hangover of epic proportions to make a change.

For young mums, it's getting easier to have a family and keep drinking. Increasingly, pubs are seeing the economic benefits of attracting parents by having playgrounds and children's areas on the premises — and the Australian climate lends itself well to sitting in a beer garden and enjoying a few drinks while your kids play in a child-friendly space. If the kids are safe and happy, their parents relax, which means that they'll stay longer and drink more. Some bars are so keen to get families through the door that they're offering free children's meals and colouring-in books, and even jumping castles. Meagan says that some of the pubs in her area have face-painting and indoor kids' areas monitored by video cameras, so that parents can drink in the bar but still keep watch over their children.

The move is all part of a shift in our culture that has seen more women drinking than ever before. Since the end of the six o'clock swill, women have been integrated into a drinking culture that used to be the domain, primarily, of men. The industry was quick to respond to this social change, developing wine coolers and sweet-tasting, brightly coloured pre-mixed spirits in stubby-sized bottles, to appeal to women who didn't like drinking beer. The ‘alcopop', as the latter became known, was a massive hit with girls and young women.

Some alcohol companies are now looking to mothers as the next growth market. Australian online parenting community
Real Mums
has its own wine club, with bottles delivered to your door. ‘No more dragging the screaming toddler to the bottle shop and having people look down their nose at you!' the website reads.

And I wonder how long it will be before we start seeing brands like MommyJuice sold here. This American wine company targets busy mothers. The logo shows a woman cross-legged on a yoga mat, juggling a house, a laptop, a teddy bear, and kitchen utensils. ‘Moms everywhere deserve a break,' the blurb reads. ‘So tuck your kids into bed, sit down and have a glass of MommyJuice — because you deserve it!' The battle for the mommy dollar is so fierce in the United States that a rival company, Mommy's Time Out (‘we all know that being a mommy is a difficult job') recently tried to convince a court, unsuccessfully, that MommyJuice's use of the word ‘mommy' to sell wine was a trademark infringement.

While I'm fairly certain that most of my friends with kids would rather eat their own eyeballs than be seen drinking a glass of MommyJuice, I don't doubt that there would be a market for such a product in Australia. The mother-of-two behind the wine — the name for which was inspired by her children, who used to say ‘That's Mommy's juice!' whenever they saw wine glasses — says that it's no different from beer ads, which have for decades used sport as a way to attract men. I'm all for market diversification, but it troubles me that women are being targeted in this way. Is drinking really such an intrinsic part of motherhood that mums are being convinced they need a bottle of wine to survive it?

To Meagan's surprise, the opposite has proved true. Since she stopped drinking, managing small children has become a lot less stressful. ‘I realise now that I cope a lot better without alcohol. It was adding another layer of stress, because you can't really deal with your emotions and the real issues if you've got a bit of an alcohol haze around you. There's always that low-level irritability, even if you're not hung-over.'

And what about those boozy girls' lunches? They've got to be hard for someone who described herself as ‘the life and soul of the party'. ‘I really worried that they were just not going to be fun. I thought that these good times were all tied up with alcohol, but I had the best time recently with my girlfriends. I laughed my head off, and they were laughing with me. I realised that I'm just a silly duffer and, whether I'm drinking or not, that's who I am, and [not drinking] doesn't make me any less fun or interesting to be around.'

This gives me hope as I prepare for my sober birthday celebrations. Maybe I can still have a wild time without booze — only this time, my antics will be remembered for quite different reasons from my prolific drinking talents. It will be the year that Starkers stayed sober, and surely the novelty of that will be enough to elevate it to a position in the annals of history that will match the notoriety of previous occasions.

WHEN THE BIG
day comes, I'm one week away from three months without booze and, oddly enough, this scares me more than the thought of a beer-free birthday. I started out doubting I'd last the full three months and now, as the finish line approaches, I'm questioning whether it's long enough. I've gained insight into my motivations for drinking, but I'm not convinced that it's enough to change my relationship with alcohol fundamentally. I can see myself a few weeks down the track, hung-over and regretful, spiralling into a chaotic world of late nights and lost mornings, just like old times. I've learned that I don't need to drink to be confident, honest, or affectionate, but I wonder how quickly those lessons will be swept from my mind, like footprints beneath a rising tide, when I'm faced with a good bottle of red and a night without limits. I now know that the line I thought age or motherhood might someday draw under my binge drinking is written in pencil, not permanent marker. If I don't want to be waking up with the same wretched hangovers five or ten years from now, I'm going to have to work a bit harder at changing the way I drink.

Besides, I'm not sure I'm ready to give up feeling so healthy, calm, and motivated. Just like my liver, I feel as if my body and mind are regenerating. The cells are being replenished.

I have a strange sense that I'm standing at a crossroads. I could go back to Habitland, where Catherine found herself so soon after having children, or stay a while longer in Sobertown. There are so many other experiences I want to try without alcohol. Can I survive a Melbourne winter without red wine? Will watching footy be as much fun booze-free? Could six months without alcohol see me kicked out of the Press Club?

I decide that another three months off the booze just seems right. It feels like I've got a lot more to learn before I invite alcohol back into my life.

Neil and his wife, Ker, and my nieces, six-year-old Daisy and three-year-old Orla, arrive on the week of my birthday. I'm excited to tell them that I'm going for another three months without alcohol. It's such a pleasure to have them stay in my new apartment, and to show them around the city I've grown to love so much. They live in Singapore, having moved there from Edinburgh three years ago. I soon realise that, although I can't toast their arrival with a beer, sobriety is actually making my time with them more special. Being dive-bombed by two squealing Scottish monkeys at 6.30 a.m. is much more enjoyable when you're not feeling scratchy after drinking wine till midnight. And when I find myself running with my brother around Princes Park at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, I can only marvel at how things have changed.

On the afternoon of my birthday party, which I hold in a beer garden just to make the challenge more real, I'm feeling happy but a wee bit nervous. I've invited a lot of people and have a few pre-party jitters. I'm anxious that people will show up and that the weather will hold out. Mostly, I'm just thrilled that my friends will get to meet my family, and my Scottish and Australian worlds will come together, putting my two halves in context for those who love me.

It turns out to be a perfect day. The sun shines all afternoon, the kids play, and my friends and family gel beautifully. The idea that having a drink in my hand will somehow make the occasion more rewarding suddenly seems silly. True, there are no singing policemen or dalliances with dreadlocked life coaches, but that's okay. This year, I have more than that: I have the energy to immerse myself completely in playing with my nieces, I have the lucidity to appreciate how heartfelt my brother's words are when he says he's proud of me and the life I've made for myself, and I have several moments of genuine, full-to-the-brim happiness — the kind so warm you could curl up and live in them — made even more profound by knowing that they're not in any way enhanced, stimulated, or manufactured by alcohol. It is joy in its purest form.

April

LAST NIGHT, AS
I slid along the polished floorboards on my knees, rocking the air guitar to Bon Jovi, it occurred to me: I don't need alcohol to be ridiculous. For so long, booze has been my ticket to a world of silliness. I have danced on bar tops, belted out karaoke, and waltzed with stolen traffic cones, all under the protective cloak of drunkenness. But as I enter my fourth month without alcohol, I realise that I don't always need a beer in my hand to be silly.

Nowhere is this more apparent than at an '80s dance class. Without alcohol to amuse me, I'm open to almost any form of alternative entertainment — and this one's a beauty. On Thursday nights, instead of enjoying pre-weekend drinks at my local boozer, I've been getting kitted out in legwarmers, fluoro tights, and a headband, and heading to an inner-city dance studio to bust out moves to classics from the decade that style forgot. We've done Alice Cooper, the Pointer Sisters, Xanadu, and, last night, the captain of cock-rock himself, Jon Bon Jovi. This is not a class for those who take themselves too seriously. So I decided pretty early on to leave my hang-ups at the door, rolled up in a ball next to my sweaty ankle socks and my vanity.

It gets me wondering, as I swing my ponytail around my head and pump my power fist in the air, why have I spent so much of my life worried about what other people think? Why has it taken half a bottle of wine for me to lose the self-consciousness that seems to follow me everywhere, like a playground bully? The more I think about it, the more I see that it's not going to alter the course of my life irreparably if a stranger thinks that my bum looks big in my new gym shorts. If I flirt with someone at a party and they run for the door, it might be embarrassing, but it won't kill me; and there's unlikely to be any long-term ramifications from an uncoordinated dance routine or a dodgy note in a karaoke bar full of colleagues. As Mum's been telling me since I was old enough to take fright at the sight of a full-length mirror, people are generally far more interested in their own lives than they are about the size of my bum or the relative boofiness of my hair on any given day. Yet I have wasted countless hours worrying about looking stupid.