I read a post via Facebook by a lady who’s been sober four years about the many joys of a sober life. She wrote: “Saturday mornings are still a luxurious novelty to me.” I smiled and felt warm inside. I feel exactly the way she described, except it’s not just Saturday mornings – it’s every morning of the week. I suppose the gratitude is more immediate and intense on weekday mornings because that’s when my drinking would really fuck my life up. Cue the shuffling and leaning on the bed, then grab the door frame to keep steady, proceed to crouch in the shower on my unsteady legs. EURGH – I actually feel ill just thinking about it. Yuk. But yes, Saturday mornings too, absolutely. Saturdays are a completely different animal now too, just like the other six days of the week.
The ghost of Saturday mornings past:
Wake up. Have I missed the alarm? What day is it? And what the fuck did I do last night? Or say? Or write? Please God, make it so that I just passed out. Grab phone despite the acute anxiety this move entails as I don’t know what I’ll find on it. Hey, just checking the time, that’s all I’ll do. I’ll check e-mails, texts and social media once I’ve started drinking again later, I can’t fucking face it otherwise. Yes, just check the time – usually 8-ish. Glance over at Hubby. Is he angry with me? I have no idea if we’re friends right now or if we’ve had a humdinger of a row. Cautiously cosy up to him to check the waters. No, he’s gathered me up immediately in his arms. No argument, then. Oh really? He’s given me that appreciative look, blissful smile playing on his lips and his eyes have that I’m-so-in-love-with-you look, gently sparkling, narrowing a little. OK, so I must have turned into a porn star because he seems really worn out, happy and grateful. Hm, my bum doesn’t feel strange so thankfully not that or some exercise in depravity involving intimidating looking sex toys shoved in places I wouldn’t want or NEED to go non-blotto. Not going to check that damn phone for a few hours though. No idea what went on though. Who knows. I certainly don’t. I can’t remember a thing beyond 9pm.
“What do you want to do today, cutie?” Hubby mumbles and strokes my cheek.
I want to do nothing. NOTHING. I feel like I’m vibrating, but not in a fun sex toy related kind of way, it’s the discomfort from drinking and I know this is going to be a fucker to get through. I’m immediately filled with dread and already frantically trying to think of something I can somehow get through, where the end destination is a pub. And then the whole charade of pretending to be nonchalant about it when we get there, like “oh, why not” when ordering a drink as if it hadn’t been the sole purpose of me leaving the house in the first place. But first get up. Bleurgh. And the whole shower ordeal too. My soul joyfully sings “coffee, coffee!” because it holds on to what coffee used to taste like in the mornings before it got like this, but I know it’ll make me feel even more rotten.
Wake up because Hubby is planting little kisses on my forehead. It’s glorious and super irritating at the same time because I was fast asleep. Open my eyes and look into his big, blue eyes as he’s looming above me just right in my face. A little smile plays on his delicious lips. Not because I pushed him to the edge of his humanity via acts of depravity last night but because we love each other and most nights end… beautifully, shall we say. Hah! Just typing this, it strikes me how everything is just so much more better sober. Classier and more tasteful too. On rare occasions my bum might feel a bit funny but at least I always know why and nothing about it horrifies me because I no longer have a black-out alter ego instigating things I actually wouldn’t.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he whispers and kisses my forehead again, “shall I stick the coffee on?”
Yes. YESSSS to coffee! God, it’s my favourite damn thing in the world. Liquid fucking Nirvana, is my morning coffee. Nice. I wonder what time it is? I’ve had a good sleep, despite this stretch of difficulty getting to sleep I’m in, and it feels like I’ve had a long lie-in. I check my phone. 7.15am. OK, cool. The first feeling to hit me is a burst of joyful energy. I mean, with super hot, gorgeous Hubby in my face as the first thing I see it’d be difficult to feel anything other than fucking awesome, but still. I bounce up, restless and keen to get moving.
“What do you want to do today?” Hubby calls out from the kitchen but sets off the coffee maker the next second so the power drill noise of it grinding the beans stops me from answering straight away.
I give the duvet a good shaking out before whipping it up into the air for it to land neatly across the bed before I straighten it up and fluff the pillows. Well, let’s see. Bambino has a football game so will need to get him up by 9am. Hubby has a bodypump class booked at the gym, so I’ll go for a run then. We’ll be showered and ready to head out on adventures by midday. A long walk perhaps? Go for a drive somewhere? As I have my first mug of glorious coffee I gaze out of the window as I always do, out across the treetops. To quote one of my favourite songs: goddamn right, it’s a beautiful day.
So yes, to call Saturday mornings “a luxurious novelty” is definitely right on the money. To call every sober morning that is accurate, but I guess at the weekend I have more time to actually savour the glory of it without rushing.
So to say this is a no-brainer, really:
Today I’m not going to drink.