It goes without saying that I’m thankful the clocks went back this weekend. I am trying to do this early morning thing, and it was getting harder and harder getting up in the dark. The extra hour makes all of the difference when you are trying to force yourself out of bed and into being your best self. 🙂
The initial days following the roll back are always a little curious. You keep half-panicking, thinking that it’s later than it is. And then you get to relax. You’re ok. It’s 4:30. Not 5:30. Big difference. The body just gets so used to having its rituals at particular times. Even the change of an hour feels like enough to knock something in the primitive brain slightly askew.
Speaking of rituals, I have noticed that I’ve been developed another little, rather unwanted one. One I’m actually partaking in as I write this to you right now. You see, every evening, around 5:30 or 6 o’clock, I find myself craving a glass of red wine.
I feel the immediate need to clarify this. This craving is specifically for wine, and I drink a maximum of one-two glasses. You’ll never see me drinking a rum and coke, and I cannot imagine putting away a half case of beer. Just not my thing.
I also feel the need to tell you that I am not a “drink to get drunk” kind of person. Yes, in my younger years, I drank quite a bit more on weekends, and yes, I made some regrettable decisions. Thankfully, as I’ve gotten a little older, alcohol has lost most of its luster. Now, it’s more about the timing of it. About the flavour. About the rituals of creating and enjoying food, and how well they happen to pair with a glass of red wine.
I’m not interested in embarrassing myself, I suppose. Or in two-day hangovers, which seem to be how mine go. Not worth it to be sick, while my mind turns anxious circles over everything I said and did the night before.
I’m glad I don’t do that, but this post is about what drinking has become for me, and how it’s still managed to become…unsettling. I am uncomfortable with it, even if my drinking is not considered to be societally overboard.
I mean, I might be freaking myself out, but it’s practically an ingrained joke that women love wine. I am doing exactly what is expected. You can go to any home décor store and pick up cutesy little “wine-o-clock” signs and assorted other wine-themed crap. That stuff is very normal. Very accepted.
Just like how easily I accepted red wine into my life.
And why not? I had bought into the idea that it was healthy. Or at least…healthy-ish. An indulgence that the new, fitter version of myself was “allowed” to have. Besides, it’s kinda classy, right? A little goth? Somewhat European?
And now I’m seeing that I glamourized it too. It’s hardly something that marks one out as an intellectual or “special.” There are rows full of wine in every liquor store. Real exotic.
And, although I hate to admit it to myself, it’s not that healthy. Or, it’s healthy in the same way chocolate is healthy; in a tiny amount, and in a variety that probably doesn’t taste very good. I highly doubt that I get many health benefits from my hearty glass of cheap Cabernet sauvignon. Maybe I’m wrong, (please, prove me wrong!) but I don’t think so.
By my own logic, I feel like I should just see it as the “junk food” it clearly is and cut it. Like potato chips, or sleeves of Oreos…just keep it out of the house. Simple.
But when I’m driving home after work, I never crave extra cookies or mountains of pasta. I think about stopping off at the store for a bottle of wine.
And THAT’S what I don’t like that. I don’t like that there’s this little bug in my brain that reminds me about wine. As if that’s what’s important about my time at home. It makes me so uncomfortable that it’s causing me to examine my relationship with alcohol. Causing me to revisit those earlier held assumptions.
You know what? I can’t really find a bonus. I have no solid reason to drink red wine. It costs me money. It’s probably harming my health, at least a little, it’s a whole bunch of extra empty calories every time I pop a cork, and it’s probably making my mornings harder.
So…I guess I don’t drink anymore? I’ll let you know when/if the bug in my brain dies.
Minerva
Critical Happiness 