“When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.” — Henny Youngman
In the slapstick comedy film Airplane! the protagonist spends about ten minutes recounting his tragic romantic past and then says, “That’s when my drinking problem began” and brings a glass of water to his mouth before missing completely, splashing the drink all over his face.
I laugh every time I watch that part. Honestly, I laugh (on the inside, at least,) every time I think about that scene, which tends to be often because it comes to mind every time I buy diet Dr Pepper, which is frequent. I have taken to fondly calling my love of beverages a “drinking problem,” because it feels like a humorous way to acknowledge what could, perhaps, be called a “problem.” But that confession demonstrates a consciousness of the issue, which means I am a thoughtful and mature individual, fully aware of my actions, and therefore respectably responsible. And I can sleep soundly at night knowing it is not a fault but a fancy.
“Fancy” also being a word that I think coincides with “drinks” in a number of ways, particularly in regard to aesthetics. You’ve seen it, I’m sure: the smooth, sanctimonious indifference with which glamorous people in the movies say “put it on my tab” as they order a scotch or martini or whatever neat-dry-dirty-on-the-rocks concoction they please. It makes the phrase seem less like a request and more like an expression of nonchalant disregard for a situation others would sweat over.
I would sweat over, because my bank account balance is about three digits short of “nonchalance.”
The ‘tab’ refers to a record of what you’ve ordered but not yet paid for. Those suave men and women in their dress shirts with the top two buttons undone and their gilded cocktail dresses, respectively, are unafraid of that moment of recompense, and order drink after drink.
(I feel obligated to insert a disclaimer that when I speak of drinking I exclude alcohol due to personal and religious reasons; I understand the downsides of liquor and prefer to keep it far, far away. I know the term “drinking problem” originated from the addiction associated with alcohol, which is interesting to me as I’ve been concerned over even casual or sporadic drinking of alcohol… regardless, for the intents and purposes of my thoughts on drinking, consider this essay a prohibitive one in the most historically-popular sense of the word. You may have found anyway, as I have, that plenty of people snub plenty of other drinks sans-booze, which is where and why I find myself indignant.)
For example, even at this moment I am halfway through my first can of diet DP for the day and it is 11:00am (but it’s always five o’clock somewhere, amiright?) There are two flattened Caprisun pouches in my trashcan that I just barely emptied, and a smashed plastic water bottle near it, because I am not good at “trash”ketball. I have a mini fridge in my bedroom stocked with nine more cans of soda (not “pop.” “Pop” is onomatopoeia, or the nickname of my grandfather), a box of Caprisuns, a Gatorade (for when I’m sporty), six water bottles, and an untouched energy drink my brother gave me that tastes like medicine.
I’m too poor and too unestablished to really merit a well-stocked personal fridge in my room. I justify this nonetheless by calling it my preparation to entertain guests. This falls apart immediately upon any questioning because I rarely entertain, and if I do it’s likely not in my bedroom. So yes, fine, those are all for me.
I down a lot of liquid. I love it. I love that drinks are easy, that they refresh me, that flavors can create different moods… that when it snows, logic says the best course of action is hot chocolate. And when the thermometer finally hits 72° for the first time following a winter, neighborhood kids pull out their cardboard boxes and plastic pitchers and crystal light packets and turn into veritable businesspeople. I love that everyone has a favorite drink. I love that that gives me something to ask people. I love that any drink can wash down food and frustration. I love that even nonalcoholic drinks drown out the things I’m stressing over, and feel like a justifiable reason for a break. I love that it gives me a reason to not talk when I don’t know what to say or don’t feel like saying anything at all. I love that drinking something is measurable progress, because even if I haven’t finished my essay or sent the email or graded the assignments or planned the lessons or checked off anything other than “make bed” on my to-do list, at least I’ve successfully emptied this container.
I love that it gives me something to love, when loving other things in my day feels hard. When I’ve said yes to too many things, and I’m paralyzed looking at said to-do list, and the most I feel capable of is a sip of something good.
The people I consider my closest friends have accepted that drinks are a love language of mine. Actually, it may be the reverse: that the people who have accepted this, I consider my closest friends. And, actually, they may or may not have accepted it, but at the very least they keep their observations and opinions to themselves, which I appreciate.
Sometimes, before they’ve accepted that my habits aren’t likely to change any time soon, friends and acquaintances comment on my drinking habits with humor and masked wariness. I always have something in hand, and if am caught without something to sip I am antsy; I can see why that might furrow the brows of those who care about my well-being; they’ve read the studies on artificial sweeteners and worry for my cardiovascular health. But to them and anyone else who insists that water be the only appropriate, productive, beneficial drink I say “There are so many things in life to be sad about and cautious with—let me have this one thing, please.” In the grand scheme of things, this is fine. Right? I’m trying to juggle all the things that impressive people can juggle—a difficult job, an interesting degree, a stimulating social life, a list of hobbies to make me look fun, travel plans, book club— despite knowing I have horrible hand-eye coordination, and you’re concerned that I drink too much aspartame?
Let me have this.
The more tasks I say yes to, the more drinks I want to consume; both things pile on my tab steadily. This ties to the freedom I feel in the phrase “drinking problem,” because don’t we drink to solve problems? Guzzle by the gallon to satiate parchedness? Consume our caffeine to wake up, or to ease the pounding of a headache or the throbbing of a menstrual cramp? (That is proven science and I stand by it.) Don’t we sip our teas counting on the fact that our nausea will subside and our congestion dissipate? Were I not staunchly sober, (and I readily admit that if that were not a religious conviction I fear I would be severely alcoholic) I would add that don’t some turn to drinking alcohol to “cleanse” the inner injury?
This makes me wonder if we ought to call it a drinking solution, but we would quickly run into the issue of “solution” also meaning “a liquid combination” which is both normal and delicious and not at all something with a negative connotation, unless to you “solution” first conjures to mind a chemical solution for, say, cleaning, which then has a very negative connotation because cleaning is annoying and cleaning solutions will melt your organs and therefore neither should be considered potable.
So we stick with drinking problem.
I will continue to both ironically and admittedly call my habit a drinking “problem,” even though it seems to solve a lot of my problems.
Even though I find it charming that drinks can turn a bland experience into an especially enjoyable one just by adding flavor, and that seems unproblematic entirely. Or even though I have a small collection of punch cards to Utah-mocktail-drinkeries, but those are physical evidence of my pouring money back into my local economy, which feels like a good thing. Or even though I find my car floors littered with straw wrappers and 32 oz cups or plastic bottles or aluminum cans, all of these are recyclable and I do them in such receptacles, bringing harmony to the environment, which Mother Nature cheers me to as we clink glasses of lemonade. Even though getting drinks has become my favorite thing to do with people—people I don’t know at all but would like to, or people I know better than myself—and I find the act a representation of my desire to spend quality, hydrating time with another person, which I think shows them that I both care for their physical well-being and appreciate the opportunity to talk with them, which benefits all parties. Even though my friend says I’m becoming too reliant on Diet Dr Pepper to soothe my cramps, but caffeine is technically naturally occurring and acetaminophen is not, so actually you could say I’m homeopathic, or a naturalist, which a lot of people respect.
Even though drinks are, by many cultures, considered a vehicle of festivity, which makes every drink feel like a celebration, and isn’t life to be celebrated? Don’t we spend too much time choking down bite by bite of our obligations hoping to clear our plates by the end of the day, without taking a moment to wash down those tasks with a celebratory refresher?
And even though, often, when I openly admit that I started my day with a Diet Dr Pepper, someone comes to me and whispers “me too, I’m so glad I’m not the only one” which gives both of us a validation-induced-boost of serotonin, and I need all the happy-hormone I can get.
I can’t really fathom being able to ever say with confidence “put it on my tab” or, rather, “go ahead, add it to my impending destitution.” At least without my voice cracking, betraying the truth, which is that I am terrified of everything I’ve piled onto my tab and am dreading my moment of propitiation when the bartender says “time to close” and it becomes painfully obvious that I don’t have enough to cover the bill. That I have failed, or am a failure, or that I’m alone, or that I’m not actually as remarkably resumé’d as you thought I was.
I add to the tab with abandon– yes I will work another job, yes I will attend that event, yes I will devote more time to whatever you think I should, yes I will stack my schedule to include no breaks, yes and yes and yes– feigning confidence but feeling dread, using those drinks after drinks as glorious glasses of coping while I erratically juggle those things with my poor coordination, and shock even myself that none have fallen and shattered.
But really, of all the means of coping and comfort I could be turning to, gulping down artificially flavored carbonated drinks or juice pouches or chocolatized-milk seems pretty tame. I’ve had to rely on drinks to keep me going more than once… I’ve drained a juice to boost a blood sugar, drank and refilled and drank again Hydroflask after Hydroflask; there was even a period where my stomach was unable to digest anything and I survived on two cans of ginger ale every day for nine weeks. Emotionally, too—I’ve trudged through mental turmoil for days and found brief reprieve when a friend dropped off a large diet Dr Pepper, lite ice, with lime, to my doorstep because they knew it is my go-to. It’s a simple pleasure, but an effective one.
If that isn’t validation enough, I think Jesus liked a good drink too: His first miracle of His ministry was to turn water into wine (and “good wine” at that, which I think shows He knew a quality drink and how it could impress a crowd).
So I champion the drinking problem. I feel less guilty about the evils of carbonation or the number of travel mugs I own when I think about what an easy solution it is to so many taxing problems that have too little respite. When that is the case, we cope, and hopefully cope well. And so I say “cheers. Pick your poison. Knock one back. Drinks on me. Put it on my tab.” Because what an easy way to reenergize and revitalize, relax and refocus. And support your local dentist.
