Strange Dish, That One

I feel real weird about the snack I'm having right now:

1 potato latke, lukewarm and soft (because I was too impatient for it to get hot and crispy in the oven.)

1 pickle, kosher dill.

1 side of ranch dressing (for the latke, not the pickle.)

If I didn't know better, I would think I was either one of two things:

A bachelor

or

Pregnant.

We all know that I'm neither, but it makes you wonder, doesn't it? They say that you can learn a lot about a creature by analyzing its, um, leave-takings. I wonder what an ethnographer/pervert would learn about me by analyzing mine.

I'm also drinking out of a glass which has etched on it the ingredients for a variety of alcoholic concoctions, which definitely makes me seem more bachelor than pregnant. The drink recipes, if one can call them that, are for the following:

Whisky Sour

Manhattan

Bacardi

Daiquiri

Tom Collins

Martini

Gibson

Of course, I'm drinking out of said glass a spritzer, made from seltzer water and cranberry juice, roughly a 60/40 blend. Back to pregnant again.

This glass was left, along with a box of Arm & Hammer deodorizer, in our refrigerator by the previous owners of this house who, I have a hunch, enjoyed more than their fair share of each of the previously listed liquid delicacies. And that's fine for them. I have to admit that I do get a certain amount of enjoyment and smug satisfaction out of drinking a non-alcoholic beverage from this particular glass. It's "ironic" the way other things that aren't pretend that they are: like mall security guards who are dressed like police officers or straight girls who frequent gay bars.

I don't drink alcohol.

There. I said it.

(You still like me, right?)

I used to dread telling people this, because there's nothing, short of admitting that you dislike the Beatles, that can get people annoyed/frustrated/defensive/confused with/by you faster than telling them that you don't drink. People don't like that-- people who drink, that is. You're immediately viewed as judgmental, prudish, immature, and/or intolerant at best. I'm sure some people who choose not to drink are some or all of those adjectives. That's a shame. I personally couldn't give a shit about what people do as long as they're not getting behind the controls of a car or an airplane or a bulldozer or even a mechanical bull while or after they're doing it.

Now that I'm older, now that I've dealt with having an alcoholic aunt who brought a hip flask to drink in the bathroom at our dry wedding, now that I've served for a year-and-a-half as an EMT and have seen the ravages of alcohol on the human brain and human body, well, now I don't feel so bad admitting that I don't drink. I couldn't give a firmer fuck about what people think about it. What goes in my Whisky Sour Manhattan Bacardi Daiquiri Tom Collins Martini & Gibson glass is my choice and my business.

That said, I don't quite know what my choice to not drink says about me. Not only do I not drink, I never have. I haven't been drunk before, and, from what I hear and what I've seen, I'm not sure I could be convinced that I'm missing very much. I've been outlandish and stupid and depressed and embarrassing and sloppy and giddy and annoying plenty of times, though-- no substance required. I'm sure that part of my decision to abstain is based on fear-- fear of the unknown, fear of addiction, fear of losing control, fear of... liking it. I'm also sure that part of my decision is based on pretty much entirely negative experiences with people who have been intoxicated-- from deceptive and nasty ex-girlfriends to abusive and retarded roommates, it's never been great. I've never been the beneficiary of a slightly tipsy, flat-tummied young thing with long hair, a tank-top and a belly-button ring going down on me at a party. Maybe that's what I missed.

Oh well.

I'll always have my health, my liver, my dog, my wife and my mind. I'll always have my latkes and pickles and my little joke glass.

And you.