The Widower’s Rant: In Defense of Drinking

As someone who came of (drinking) age in the early 80s, the holy grail of showing your ID and being able to buy booze or order a drink at a bar was something dreams of unicorns and rainbows (not yet the LGBTQI one) were made of. Today’s sober-curious and abstinence movement, while laudable, contradicts the simple pleasure this glass of eleven-year-old Pinot Noir brings me right now. The second glass compels me to bring my metaphorical pen to LED illuminated paper. 

Spin the bottle. True confessions: I had a fake ID. I’m not at all proud of how I managed to acquire one. It involved a birth certificate of a deceased infant born a few years before me. It was more resourceful and clever than those who used whiteout and a library typewriter. Okay, I tried that first. Like I said, I’m not proud of this. Has the statute of limitations passed? At least my mother has. I’d be so ashamed if she found out. But on the day of my 21st birthday, I had a ritual burning of the fake ID and ashes to ashes, the anonymous soul was at peace again. 

My point is that while a fake ID and getting into a bar was great, once the taboo of underage drinking passed…okay, who am I kidding…I drank a lot more. Arguably too much at times. I lived in a Fraternity house, after all. Previously, I grew up as a sheltered, naive, only child in a new, cliquey high school with no real friends and no opportunities to experiment. So, I made up for it in college. A lot. Like the girl from the Catholic high school living in a Co-Ed dorm. But a lot less sex. Most have that one booze they can never touch again. Mine is Royal Velvet Canadian Whisky. Halloween night, Freshman year. The Sophomore in the other dorm somehow had bottles to sell. I imagine my lack of enthusiasm about wearing a costume is likely connected to the night and that bottle. But I once again digress. 

My favorite author, podcaster, and snarky wealthy guy, Scott Galloway, has often said that alcohol makes him a better version of himself. For me, it’s the same. The first glass of wine makes me much more chatty, open, and gregarious. The shields drop. The anxiety abates. With a Japanese mother and English/Irish/Scottish father, at worst I’m probably heterozygous for ALDH2, so I can process a reasonable amount of EtOH up to my fighting weight. At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

Sure, on days when I have one beer, one glass of wine, or no drinks, I sleep well and wake up refreshed and clear-headed. However, on nights when the conversation lingers and the third or more glass beckons, the mornings are harder than they used to be. At least I have a cocktail of preventative and restorative steps to ameliorate the reminder of the fun night. Paid subscribers have access to the recipes. 

I relish that glass of wine while cooking and with my meal. The problem with living alone is tonight, last night, and tomorrow night, there’s no one else to clink my glass, comment about how nice the wine is, to look into her brown eyes, and share a fleeting moment together over a nice meal. I miss that more than anything. The simplicity of a shared moment. No ceremony, no special day. Just life and living as partners with someone who has always been there and will always be there tomorrow. And the night after that. Until, suddenly, abruptly, she’s not. 

Covid was great for Beth and me. There, I said it. We didn’t have young kids in school. Her job was secure, and she could work from home. My work had been from home for a decade. We were lucky and mindful of our fortune in the face of unimaginable adversity for many. Once the initial mortal threat of Covid passed, and we were no longer wiping down the canned goods from the grocery store, we settled into a nice routine of popping a decent bottle of wine, cooking dinner, enjoying it while watching Jeopardy, taking a walk around our village, then relaxing watching our favorite show on the couch with our doggies. We had Zoom dinners with other couples. All the benefits of being social without having to leave the house and wear button pants. 

After the Covid-curtain lifted, we agreed that the bottle we split (okay, maybe 60:40 or 70:30) was a bit much, so we reverted to opening the bottle with dinner and not during prep. And save the rest of the bottle for the next day. Occasionally, as I made dinner, we’d ask one another, “No wine tonight?” and agree we’d skip. It was a mutual check to make sure it was a pleasurable habit and not a dependency. 

Another writer I admired was a guy with the nom de plume Stanley Bing. A business humorist and novelist, he wrote for Fortune and Esquire. He excoriated corporate America with a snarky humor that spoke to my internal monologue when I was part of the problem. One thing he wrote sticks with me today, to paraphrase, “I’m afraid of becoming an alcoholic because I’ll miss the lovely stuff too much.” 

A few weeks ago, I opened an older vintage wine from our winery and my family’s vineyard. It was stellar. So much so that I had to text my brother-in-law complimenting him on the grapes he nurtured and the winery we grew from that partnership. I commented that it was so delicious it would be difficult to stop enjoying the bottle. His real-time reply spoke volumes to me that night, “I’ve always regarded 750’s as a single-serving container” (though I’d bet he has no ALDH2 deficiency) 

It would be easy for me to succumb more frequently to the pain-dulling, melancholy state that the third glass brings. And no one would blame me, as frankly, there’s a lot of pain deserving to have the sharp edges filed down. It’s the pain of empty: the empty chair, the empty spot on the bed, the empty passenger seat in my car—so. much. empty. I grieve for the life I lost. Not just Beth’s life. Our life. The life of the clink of a glass on an otherwise ordinary day. The other glass now sits in the cupboard, empty.

What’s not empty is my heart. It’s so full it bleeds onto this page. The love my family, friends, and even strangers have given me is overwhelming at times. It brings me comfort and strength. Just like writing these words and ranting into the universe is healing. To share the pain of the journey is to know I’m not going through it completely alone.

There was a point when I started this earlier in the glass. Mankind’s pursuit of intoxication is older than recorded history. Once someone observed animals behaving oddly after eating spoiled fruit, it became a singular pursuit that has captivated monks, poets, and scientists (yay Pasteur!) alike. Alcohol is a social lubricant, a connector of people, and an ancient remedy for the toils of the day. Addiction and dependency are real, and I don’t mean to trivialize or dismiss the severity of the problem. I have bottomless respect for those who have drawn a hard line that I’m too weak to contemplate. 

Beth loved a glass of Champagne, a cold beer with a great burger, or a remarkable wine savored with friends over a gourmet dinner. She enjoyed a glass because it meant people sharing a moment. I still love those moments. Over time, the sting of not sharing them with her will be dulled without the crutch of the third glass compensating for the empty in my cupboard. 

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald