One of the great, unheralded aspects of Internet dating was that the word It also allowed me to say up front: I don't drink. I didn't want to watch some guy's face fall when I ordered a Diet Coke and then endure the pecks of his curiosity.So my "About Me" statement began "I used to drink, but I don't anymore." I've had stronger openings, but this one was good for now.After I got sober, I worried I'd never have sex again.
Booze had given me permission to do and say anything I wanted, but now that I was sober, the only thing I wanted most days was to watch Netflix.
It's not as though every intimacy in my entire life had been warped by drinking.
My only directions involved taking a glass of wine to my lips and letting the sweet release show me the way. It was the fate of all single women in their late thirties to stare down a personal profile, and as far as punishments go, this was fairly benign. It allowed me to inch toward intimacy with built-in distance.
It granted me the clarity that "hanging out at the bar" often lacked.
I'd had quiet sex, and giggling sex, and sex so delicate it was like a soap bubble perched on the tip of my finger.
I knew such joy could exist between two people, but I had no clue how to get to it anymore.But I'd ruined my sole romantic strategy: get drunk, see what happens.I had no idea how to get close to a man without alcohol.I understood that not drinking—and not drinking to such an extent that it was the first detail I shared about myself—would turn off certain guys. Those bearded eccentrics with their fluency in HBO shows and single-malt Scotch.How I missed those beautiful, damaged men, but we kept our distance from each other.Occasionally I would e-mail one of them, and they never wrote back, and I got it.