But it’s okay, I take drugs.
I found these words coming out of my mouth whilst sat at dinner surrounded by wine glasses waiting for my diet Coke to arrive.
The conversation had arrived at the shared enjoyment of drinking wine, of the reward of it, the relief it can bring, general cultural commentary on the merits of alcohol.
Then I had to go and bring the mood down by saying I don’t really like it.
I know this generally is met by confusion and awkwardness, rarely curiosity, always a bit of a pause. Sometimes I wish people wouldn’t ask, then I dislike that I feel that way — there should be no shame in not drinking alcohol, but I also know very well that it’s quite a controversial life choice (in middle-age women in the UK).
And I’m not teetotal, so I sometimes will go on to explain that I’ll have a drink if I fancy the flavour of something but the feeling of drunkenness rarely is pleasurable to me anymore and it’s certainly not worth the hangover.
So depending on who I’m with, who said what and the feeling I sense once I’ve dropped my bombshell, if it feels like I won’t be judged even more harshly I will confess to late-in-life psychonaut expeditions.
On this occasion, in a local pub, meeting new friends, the immediate wave of (possibly projected?)…
