On Drinking
Drinking, like so many other things in life, began with the desire to fit in. After college, I settled in Kearney Mesa, San Diego, eager to establish myself and, like so many young men, desperate to belong. In my mind, part of being “normal” was enjoying a cold beer with friends, laughing and sharing stories. But my body had other plans. From the first sip, beer and wine left me dizzy, depressed, and more than a little out of sorts. I tried different types of alcohol, hoping one would agree with me, but they all had the same effect—except vodka.
I was about 26 when I made this discovery. Vodka, it turned out, was tolerable for my allergies. Unlike beer and wine, it didn’t make me feel miserable immediately. Instead, it gave me a doorway into the social world of drinking that I had been longing for. But that doorway was a slippery slope. I quickly found that vodka was potent, and it didn’t take much for me to get drunk. Once a week or so, I would indulge, and inevitably, I’d end the night in a drunken haze.
There was a peculiar discovery along the way: as long as I started with vodka, I could manage to drink beer. The beer still gave me a rash, but it didn’t hit me until the next day, which seemed like a reasonable trade-off at the time. My drinking buddy during this period was John, a Canadian friend who shared my taste for vodka and beer. Every weekend, we’d get together, drink until we were laughing uncontrollably, and then head down to the beach at Pacific Beach for campfires.
Those nights by the campfire have a special place in my memories, tinged with both fondness and regret. The laughter, the music, the camaraderie—it all felt like the essence of what I had been seeking in those early years of adulthood. John could strum a few chords on the guitar, and we’d sing along to whatever tunes we knew, our voices blending with the crackling fire and the rhythm of the waves. It was a time when I felt free and alive, as though the world was ours to enjoy.
Our campfires required wood, and we had a rather ingenious, albeit questionable, method of obtaining it. Back then, grocery stores used wooden pallets to stack and move their products. These pallets were often left outside on the loading dock, and under the cover of darkness, we’d sneak behind the store, load six or eight pallets onto John’s Nissan truck, and make our way to the beach. The fire, the alcohol, the music—it was all part of the ritual.
I became known for my ability to make people laugh, especially after they’d had a few drinks. The alcohol loosened everyone up, and I thrived in that environment, where the line between foolishness and fun was delightfully blurred. Of course, drinking so much meant that I often couldn’t drive, but John would take the wheel, making sure we got home safely. After the campfires, when the night was winding down, we’d head back to my apartment. Some nights, I was too drunk to let the party end, and I’d convince John to join me in some harebrained scheme.
One Saturday night, around 2 a.m., I came up with the brilliant idea to break into the public recreation center’s pool. With more courage than sense, John and I climbed the fence, removed the cover from the junior Olympic pool, and took a drunken swim. It was exhilarating in the moment, but the next day, I was filled with regret, worrying that someone might have seen us. My fears weren’t entirely unfounded; when I couldn’t find my wallet the next morning, I panicked. After searching the apartment, I realized I might have left it at the pool.
Hungover and anxious, I went back to the recreation center and asked if they had found a wallet. The look of disgust on the guy’s face said it all. “I hope you had a nice swim,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. I slinked out of there, grateful they didn’t call the cops, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of shame. After that, I crashed in bed for a few hours, nursing both a hangover and my bruised pride.
Drinking led to more foolishness over the years. One night, in a state of complete intoxication, I mistook my closet for the bathroom and peed in it. On another occasion, I decided to try a handstand—something I couldn’t even do sober. I ended up spraining my ankle so badly that I needed crutches for a month. Remarkably, I repeated this stunt on two separate occasions, as if I hadn’t learned my lesson the first time.
What had started as a simple desire to fit in had turned into a weekly binge, a ritual that I both loved and loathed. The binge drinking lasted for a couple of years, a period where John and I were inseparable. But as it often happens, life took us in different directions. John met a beautiful girl and started to drift away from our weekend rituals. I didn’t take the hint. I kept drinking, often alone, and sometimes I’d call him in the middle of the night, begging him to come over and drink with me. Eventually, he told me to stop calling. That was the end of our friendship.
Drinking alone became my new normal. On some nights, after I’d had my fill at home, I’d head out to a bar, still buzzing from the vodka. I was never a mean drunk, just a foolish one, and that got me thrown out of bars a few times. But one night stands out in my memory—one of the lowest points in my drinking career.
I had decided to go to Tijuana, where I believed everyone was as carefree and drunk as I was. I spent every last penny at the bars, losing myself in the revelry, only to realize at the end of the night that I had no money left to pay for parking. When I reached my car, parked just across the border, I was penniless and desperate. The only thing I had was a brand-new volleyball. I offered it to the parking attendant in exchange for my freedom, and to my immense relief, he accepted.
There are countless other misadventures that I could recount, each one a testament to how alcohol had become both a crutch and a curse. As time went on, I used drinking to cope with social situations, where my natural introversion made me uncomfortable. Alcohol became a way to ease the tension, to feel like I belonged. But it never turned into daily drinking. It remained a weekend ritual, a binge that left me empty and regretful each Sunday morning.
I kept it under control, especially after my first child was born. Parenthood brought a new sense of responsibility, and I learned to moderate my drinking. But the struggle wasn’t over. Even now, years later, I still grapple with the urge to drink in social situations. The temptation to reach for a glass, to feel that familiar warmth and ease, is always there. But I’m trying to find another outlet, something healthier and more sustainable. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it. Since retiring in June, life has been going well, and I’m hopeful that I’m finally on the right track.