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As a sober, introverted woman in her 40s, it’s been a minute since I’ve been to a slumber party—and by ‘a minute,’ I mean at least two decades. In my late teens and early 20s, there were plenty of evenings that were slumber party-adjacent: my girlfriends and I put on glittery eyeliner and clothes our mothers would have called slutty, and went to parties, bars, or—very occasionally—clubs. We’d come back to someone’s house with blisters on our feet and mascara on our chin and pass out on couches in the living room, or squeeze together on futons that we were too young and drunk to know were uncomfortable.
The real slumber kind of slumber party happened years before the glittery eyeliner. Those were the ones where everyone wore pajama pants, big sweatshirts, and fuzzy socks. They often involved alcohol, but it was a cozy kind of inebriation—passing around a bottle of wine someone had stolen from their parents—giggling while Clueless played for the umpteenth time on a TV no one was watching.
The cozy sleepovers were my ideal kind of party—they suited my introversion and latent alcohol addiction well. From the earliest days of my drinking, the transition from I’m drunk and having fun to I’m drunk and need to go to sleep right. this. second. happened in the blink of a drooping eye. It was immensely convenient to already be in pajamas and near a pillow.
I was 23 when I got sober. As is often the case, my 20s were full of weddings. When my still-drinking friends had bachelorette parties, I politely ducked out before booze turned into the evening’s main event. If there was going to be a heavy-drinking occasion that wasn’t a major life thing (birthday, wedding, etc.), I didn’t go. If my non-sober girlfriends planned a weekend trip, they were kind enough to make it a “wellness” forward event—a tactful code for minimal, if any, alcohol.
By my mid-thirties, most of my girlfriends had kids; once I turned 40, it seemed obvious that our days of sleeping bags and playing of light as a feather, stiff as a board were over (none of us are light as feathers and we all have joints stiff as boards).
But last weekend I found myself at exactly this kind of slumber party. My friend, let’s call her Julia, was having a belated birthday party. Her husband and kids took off for the weekend, and she invited a bunch of lady friends over. I’ve known Julia since middle school, but we only reconnected a few years ago. I didn’t know most of the women she invited; the few I knew, I’d met only once or twice.
As a sober introvert, this scenario came with a bit of trepidation. In my drinking days, I would have handled it the way I did everything else—by letting copious amounts of alcohol burn off my discomfort until I was convinced I’d charmed my way into the hearts of all who were present. (I can’t emphasize the “I was convinced” part of that statement enough. The reality was often quite different.)
I packed an overnight bag, but imagined myself driving home a few hours later, ready to escape into the comfort of my partner, my dog, and—most crucially—my bathtub.
I did not go home that night. It wasn’t an awkwardness-free evening; I spent a little time doing my signature study-the-bookshelf-and-pet-the-cat shuffle, but overall, it was lovely. It helped that a handful of other non-drinkers were in attendance.
When I opened the fridge to grab one of the flavored seltzers I’d brought (always, always bring NA drinks to a party if you are unsure of the beverage situation!!), there was an array of pastel-colored cans containing pre-made cocktails, which (rudely) didn’t exist when I was still drinking.
They looked good. They looked cheerful, enticing, and like the kind of drink that would be deceptively strong. I wondered exactly how strong they were, and then I wondered it again, because that’s how my brain works. Despite coming in an equally colorful can, my limoncello La Croix looked like day-old bathwater by comparison.
Standing too long in front of the open fridge, I thought I could take one of these and no one would notice. I could pretend that I didn’t notice it was alcoholic.
I know scores of people don’t like Alcoholics Anonymous’ characterization of addiction as insanity—and I get why that doesn’t apply to everyone. But I can’t think of a more fitting word to describe my relationship to alcohol. From the first moment I used it, liquor cost me friends, relationships, trust, self-respect, and, eventually, very nearly my life. Yet after 18 years of abstinence—the length of time it takes a newborn to become a legal adult—I can still open a fridge and think, how do I secretly get my hands on this thing that will certainly ruin my life?
If you’ve got a better word for that, I’m all ears.
I used to keep these moments of delusional fantasy to myself. They tend to make well-meaning people in my life worry. In the early days, I thought they meant I was doing something wrong; that I should be blissfully ignorant of alcohol’s existence, or the thought of drinking it should horrify and repulse me as much as drinking a can of paint thinner would. Sometimes people in recovery meetings would tell me I simply needed to go to more meetings to properly banish them from my brain.
But I actually prefer they stick around and pop up from time to time. I’ve come to appreciate these little spasms of insanity. What better evidence could I have of why I can’t drink than the fact that—after everything that’s happened—I still sometimes want to?
A few years ago, the video below went viral, and it’s one of my favorites. A little girl dances on a chair and jabbers incoherently. Her grandma sits beside her and demands she sit down. The girl starts laughing hysterically, pats her on the shoulder, and says, “Oh, Grammy,” sweetly but completely dismissively. No matter how stern her grandma sounds, you know with 100% certainty that little girl isn’t taking her seriously.
When I have objectively insane thoughts, like I just want to see what a cocktail in a can tastes like; surely I won’t drink more than one, I imagine laughing dismissively at my brain like that little girl at her grandma. Oh, Brain, I think. You are so full of shit sometimes.
For me, trying to push these thoughts away only makes them linger stealthily in the shadows. If I acknowledge them, ideally by laughing at whatever absurdity they’re trying to convince me of, they pass by without much fuss. And that’s what happened at Julia’s house.
I drank my seltzer and watched people drink their various cocktails. At some point, I realized that if I hadn’t been watching, I would’ve had no idea who had been drinking. Everyone was a little loose, a little giddy, and having a good time.
Suddenly, I could imagine exactly what that room would have looked like if I’d been drinking; my inebriation would have been the unwelcome main event. I’d be stumbling, bulldozing conversations, obsessively focused on drinking, and generally insufferable. It would have gone from a fun adult lady slumber party to an Everyone Has To Deal With Katie’s Bullshit Debacle.
When we went to bed that night, all I could think about was how happy I was that Drunk Katie was not at this party. That I’d unplugged the alcohol-fueled chaos machine.
I ended up sleeping on the couch in the living room, right next to the kitchen. Others claimed various bedrooms and downstairs couches, so I was alone in a room adjacent to the fridge with canned cocktails, steps away from a shelf displaying shiny bottles of liquor. If I’d wanted to drink in secret, the opportunity was offered on a silver bar cart.
Instead, I was just grateful I’d powered through a little awkwardness and put a toe outside my comfort zone. I fell asleep content in the knowledge that I wouldn’t wake up with a list of questions about my behavior and an even longer list of people I owed apologies. It was also a nice reminder that for every utterly absurd thought my brain conjures, I have some rational ones clunking around in there too.
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I’m not a doctor or mental health professional, so my advice shouldn’t be construed as medical or therapeutic. You are free to take or leave it.
Sometimes it can be liberating to remember that not every thought we have is true and needs an action. Love this post, thanks for sharing!
Oh brain, you're such a hoot. If I didn't need you to help me get my shoes on, some days I want to take you out in the woods and leave you there.