This week, I celebrated twenty-five years without a drink. If I were asked to give a lead on this occasion (or a talk, or a share, or a qualification), depending on where you live, I’m not sure I’d say anything all that different than I usually do. I’d tell you a little bit about my story, perhaps one of the least-interesting drunkalogues ever, primarily characterized by poor decision-making involving men, money, and work, but not poor enough to provide anything especially hilarious or tragic. I’d tell you that when I gave up drinking, I hadn’t lost everything, but I hadn’t gained much of anything either. About all that was evident to me at age thirty, in one brief moment on my sofa alone with my beer, waiting for my verbally abusive actor boyfriend to call (best description of him ever borrowed from my friend Tod: “You know him, he plays the asshole in most movies”) was that this might be as good as it was going to get for me. Which is to say: not very.

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