Damp January
An anti-deprivationist’s attempt to go dry
I poured a shot of the mushroon elixir into a large crystal glass, hoping the delicate stem and curving shape would fool my mind into believing the drink was a bespoke cocktail or a refreshing rosé. I poured mango kombucha on top, added ice and a thin slice of bright lime. It looked fancy, tropical and delicious.
It tasted like shit. I know this is a cliché which I usually try to avoid, but this mushroom concoction was what I imagine dog poop would taste like mixed with wet dirt, sauteed mushrooms, and mold. It tasted like that even through the tang of the mango. So more accurately, the drink tasted like shit with mango frosting.
This is me doing Dry January, a painful new tradition that seems to have caught fire, the way kale did a few years ago, or maybe carob chips did way back. Dry January is for the sober curious, the wellness nuts, the people who love deprivation. It’s not for me.
Since the COVID lockdown I have had a drink every single night. Maybe that is an exaggeration, I missed a couple of Monday nights in 2023. I am not proud of this. I know so many of you are thinking DRUNK! And I do worry; my grandfather was an alcoholic of epic, tragic proportions.
I like to take Januarys to prove to myself that I am not who you are now convinced I am. Last January I took ten days off. It felt good, to have accomplished it. The January before that I hardly drank a thing; my low level depression didn’t need any help. Each time, I didn’t have any of the euphoric profound understandings of myself like the sober-by-choicers seem to have. I didn’t feel energized in some sparkly, new age way.
This January, after a two week vacation where my one glass of wine morphed into a brunch Mimosa, a local beer with lunch, a speciality cocktail and a glass of wine, I felt tired and full. I had a low-level hangover for weeks. I knew I needed a re-set, a refresh, a re-something.
Yet, I don’t like failure. I don’t like perfection. I’m opposed to rigidity it all is forms. Flexibility is a lifeskill, is one of my families most-used mantras. I reject the extremes that others seem drawn to: Zero carbs, fasting, ultramarathons, the Whole 30 (which is basically giving up everything good in life).
I know in our culture people believe that deprivation is morally better. Just last night a man in my Zoom meeting bragged about his four-to-five hours of sleep per night. Of course he almost-chuckled in an attempt at self-deprecation, and yet I got the message: He was a good, deprived person.
I like nine or ten hours of sleep per night. Sometimes a nap, too. I am into dessert: chocolate, cookies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate chocolate chip cookie dough inside of brownies. You get it. I’m into breakfast, which seems like fightin’ words these days. Sometimes I even eat a scone for breakfast and then have a piece of chocolate as “breakfast dessert” (a practice that I only wish would be the next fad). I’m into a beautiful glass of pinot noir on a rainy Friday night with a candle-lit dinner of whatever seemed the fastest on Door Dash.
I believe deeply in balance. Wine every night is not a balanced life or a balanced liver. I have become a believer in Damp January. I’m not sure who came up with the phrase but it works for me. During the week I drink all of the non-alcoholic drinks that have exploded into the stores. I tried the mushroom drink, which actually did give me a little of the “take-the-edge-off” feeling, but it wasn’t worth the taste. I like kombucha in my fancy glass. It seems like a nice end to the day, a way to transition from work and tasks to home and rest.
I like rest. I like deliciousness, moderation, balance, and joy. I do not like eating shit, no matter what it’s frosted with.
