Tell me why I don’t like Fridays

I don’t mind Fridays these days it’s just that I don’t have the same amount of anticipation around the day that I used to.

Fridays used to mean ‘drink’. It’s used to signal the end of the week where I managed to abstain from drinking for around 3 days. I usually gave myself permission to drink one day during the week. Those three gruelling  days of abstinence of course were the pivotal differentiation between me, an olympic gold medallist drinker and a down and out alcoholic.

There were other differences. You see an alcoholic is a poor soul on a park bench with a bottle of vodka. Or the person that gets DUI’s and whose children get taken away. Not me. I never drove while drinking. I rarely drank Vodka, certainly never on a park bench! In truth I could have easily slipped into the driving under the influence thing. In South Africa it’s very common as there is no public transport system to speak of. I was forwarded a joke the other day by a friend of mine. ‘In Joburg if you have 5 beers you’re an alcoholic, in Kempton if you have 5 beers you’re the driver.’

Fridays meant I could pour myself an enormous glass of Sauvignon Blanc by 5 sharp. Sometimes 4:30, sometimes 4. I would Skype with my mother in South Africa, then have a dance party with kids. At 7 o’clock we’d go upstairs and bath the kids, by which point I had finished a bottle and was just hitting that sweet spot of tipsy happy drunk.

After we put kids in bed by 8 o’clock the next bottle would be opened. And this is where it all goes fuzzy.

Some Friday nights my husband would be in a foul mood and we just end up fighting.
Some Friday nights we ate together then watched tv separately, carry on drinking till we both passed out.

Sometimes we sat and listened to music together and talked while getting hammered but those evenings were few and far between.

As I’m writing this I am just realising that the lie alcohol tells is of the ‘promise’ of reward. The dopamine lie that is  – ‘something amazing is just around the corner’ if I can just drink enough I’ll be satisfied, happy and content.

The reality is. Tipsy by 8, paralytic by 11, passed out by 12.

 

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