Published on February 3, 2014 | by John Smith0
Dry January made me fat
On the first day of this fine even-numbered year, I pledged myself not to have a drop of booze.
All who knew me scoffed at the idea, laughed like pregnant hyenas, and patted me on the back. I resented that strongly.
I’ve had a slight alcohol problem for several years, but never thought twice about it.
This January was the one. I went in with a head filled with dreams and a body bursting with despair. I reeked of failure.
Actually, when it comes to lifestyle changes, I embody everything that defines failure.
Four days went by and all I could think about was going to LCC’s favourite and only bar, the Darkroom, where drinks are cheap.
There, the pierced couches that make Beirut seem like Turks and Caicos allow me to sink into the alcoholic daydream I so dearly long for.
But I didn’t. Instead, I went home, got into bed and ate ice cream.
As the weeks went by my social life, which is (sadly) correlated with my drinking, came to a halt.
My weight, however, looked like Enron stock pre-2001; steaks, burgers, pizzas – every meal was a culinary festival.
I realized, plain and simply, that what the addict misses, the addict replaces.
On the other hand, my anxiety levels came to an all-time low.
January witnessed none of my classic panic attacks.
No freak outs on the tube because I heard a Casio beep; no glitchy brain in the mornings and, after the two week mark, I slept like a sedated tiger.
What I got out of this dry episode is that one’s debauchery must be moderated.
Moderate your damn consumption, whether it be the sweet elixir that is booze, or the Game Day Special from Bodeans.
My next challenge is to spend February competing with my buddy Dan on that Nike Running app, which is worse than not drinking.