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The Unusual Defiance of Refusing to Drink With My Parents
Resisting the pull of functional addiction
I couldn’t have been older than twelve or so. I was sitting on the living room floor, eating canned ravioli over the coffee table and watching Fresh Prince on the TV.
“Nikki,” Mom said, waving her cigarette in the air with one hand, bringing her beer down from her lips with the other. “If you ever want to try drinking,” she said, “come to one of us, okay?”
Dad was nodding from the other side of the sofa. “Yeah,” he said. “That way, at least we can be there with you.”
“Uhh. Okay,” I said. No way, I thought.
This wasn’t the first time they’d said something like this, apropos of nothing, but I never ceased to be baffled they thought this was a legitimate possibility. What did they think would happen? I’d be sitting in my room one day, doing a math problem or some other nerdy thing, and have a sudden hankering for a drink? And then I’d bring that desire to them and they would just give me some booze? And then what? I’d drink it in front of them and they’d watch me? Or, worse yet, they’d drink with me?
Ugh. It all sounded so naïve, even to me, even then. If I ever wanted to drink, it would be because I was out with friends who were drinking. I certainly…
