Our theme for the month of June is “spirits.”
“Something’s wrong with you two,” my boyfriend’s relative said.
We were at a Bat Mitzvah and heading to the open bar—me for a lemonade, David for a Diet Coke. It wasn’t the first time our drink choices have drawn comments, and I laughed—amused that my desire for some quality lemonade could cause such alarm.
But the remark lingered. It’s true that at twenty-five, I have a complicated relationship with alcohol. Not because I’ve abused it, but because I can’t bring myself to try it. At happy hours and girls’ nights out, I scan the menu for a Moscow Mule—a good sign that I can order my beloved ginger beer. (Servers hate me for tips, I know.) My friends will offer a sip of their drinks, and my insides will twist. No thanks, not tonight. Nah, I don’t know my limits, and I don’t want to find out now.
These excuses hide the deep distaste and anxiety with which I view alcohol consumption. Which sounds extreme. After all, it’s not like alcoholism runs in my family. My parents rarely have a second drink, and their drinks are always a complement to burgers, pizza, fish and chips, or other festive food.
If there’s anything that soured my relationship with drinking, it’s high school. Back then, drinking happened at parties that I wasn’t invited to—parties at which my classmates (allegedly) hooked up, broke up, and threw up in each other’s boats, barns, and backyards. I’d hear about it the next week at school.
Those stories unsettled me, mainly because the people in them seemed so unlike the peers that I thought I knew. I interacted with most people in school-sanctioned environments like Quiz Bowl and lunchtime Bible study. Hearing the weekend gossip, though, made me question how much I could trust my perception—whether I really knew any of these people at all. I could only conclude first that drinking was an activity that no one thought I should be involved in and second that it revealed people’s irresponsible sides, which, frankly, didn’t sound like much fun to be around.
College stretched this perspective on drinking. My Calvin friends drank responsibly, as a respectable social endeavor. Even then, I found myself scrutinizing anyone with a drink in their hand. Was their laugh real, their remark genuine—or was it slightly off? I realized that I had no experience with intoxicated people. I couldn’t tell whether someone was drunk, tipsy, high (!), or sober and just weird. I was invited to the parties now, but I was still standing outside the realm of alcohol and looking in, wondering what all the fuss was about.
Yet despite this FOMO, I couldn’t bring myself to drink. I still can’t. Part of me doesn’t want to break my streak. I’ve never been to Taco Bell and I’ve never had a drink, and those feel like two critical pillars of my personality. There’s also the financial incentive (fifteen dollars for a cocktail versus three dollars for a ginger beer? Come on), and the fact that I’m a control freak, who can’t imagine enjoying anything that impairs her executive function.
But I’ve also realized that I’m afraid of alcohol because it makes people act differently. I fear that my friends won’t be as kind, reliable, or reasonable if they’re intoxicated, and I don’t want to bring this on myself, either. I also can’t imagine wanting to be anyone but my “real self,” which for me is my sober self, among others. (I will acknowledge my hypocrisy here re: substance use and the “real self,” as I need at least two cups of coffee every day to function.)
Finally, I can’t imagine that a beer really tastes better than a lemonade. But I’ll continue to celebrate with those who drink and to learn more about their reasons for doing so.
Eleanor Lee (‘23) graduated from Calvin with degrees in computer science and writing. She grew up in South Carolina but currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She loves coffee, laughing, and bringing emojis to the workplace.
