For My Own Good

On the advice of my doctor, who just happens to be a naturopath (although I chose him for that very reason three years ago), I’m back on my eating program. I won’t call it a diet because it’s really about forming new habits. It’s not rocket science. I can read about it or hear about it just about anywhere I turn.

Alcohol. That’s the heavy in this story. You don’t read too many stories in the news about people over the limit on chocolate meringue pie causing pain and suffering on the highway. I learned a long time ago about booze and the highway, and even then I still let so-called good times with friends, and just people, put me in harm’s way. My choice, my bad, my past. We mostly stay at home to medicate ourselves these days. My doctor says that I let my friends influence me to drink more than I should, more than I can really—too much, too often. Not so good, I know. But my doctor is wrong. I can’t blame anyone else for my habits—any of them.

Last night, after 10 days of eating consciously and foregoing that gin and tonic or two or glass of Malbec or two at the magic hour sometime around the evening news or with friends, I found myself staring square into the face of two open bottles of wine on the table at dinner. I had traveled an hour up the interstate at the invitation of a friend there to attend the opera, and part of the evening included dinner and speaker on the grounds of the Santa Fe Opera. The food was beautiful, satisfying but light, I chose the strawberries and a slice of Brie for dessert, and I allowed myself a glass of white wine. That’s the story, no big deal. It was a big deal, though. I had gone 10 days without alcohol, motivated to shed a few pounds, eager to look in the mirror and see a difference in my face and my mid section, to pull up a pair of pants and smile because there’s extra room in the waist. Having that glass of wine was a big deal for a lot of reasons.

Everything in moderation, including moderation, they say. I realized long ago that moderation—well, not so easy for me. I know a few people who by any comparison struggle with alcohol. Someone who calls himself a recovering alcoholic with more than 30 years to his credit commented to a mutual friend and me awhile back that he could never have just a couple of glasses of wine or mixed drinks, like our friend and me. For him, that would always lead to several beers and end up with him drunk, he added. I’ve been there and lived to tell about—no small miracle. Trust me, instead an incredible bounty of miracles, I know to my very core.

Cigarettes played a minor role in my adult life off and on for 30-odd years. I grew up with a daddy who smoked all of his life, stopping at 65 only because of the onset of emphysema. He died a few months shy of his 70th birthday. I have put them down twice, and during the time that I was using, I was an on-again off-again smoker—not my daddy’s cigarette smoker.

On a beach in Cozumel in 1983, sipping an ice-cold Modelo with David, my partner at the time, and a friend with whom we were vacationing, I asked David for a Merit, our cigarette of choice at the time. After taking two or three hits, I looked out at the water and said to myself, I want to live. I put out the cigarette and didn’t smoke for 10 years. It was as simple as that. My next round of smoking lasted for five years—introduced to rolling your own by a couple of guys that I spent time with during those five years. They also liked to drink, especially the one who clearly struggled with alcohol. He was an aggressive, angry drunk. He told me in a phone call four years ago that at the time he had a few years of recovery under his belt. I’ve known others. Yes, there’s a story there as well. February 19, 1998, on a trip to visit a friend in Austin, Texas, I put down the smokes for a second, and no doubt, final time.

Food has never been my demon, even though I enjoyed a few too many Fritos and a few too many slices of coconut crème pie over the five years my oldest sister, with some help from me, looked after our mother. I know with certainty, though, that food sometimes is not, and alcohol clearly never has been, a good friend to me. The record shows that we consume to forget—be it food or booze, or whatever other world-based device we choose, or any combination of the above. Let me not beat up on myself, yet again, however. For now, since right now is all I have, I’ll just say that on the advice of my doctor, I’m focused on making better choices for myself, hoping to grab a healthy habit.

This writer always has something going on—keeping himself stirred up a little, sometimes a lot. That’s what those who know him might say—not that they would say anything, not that it really matters so much anymore what anyone has to say about his choices. I remind myself that choice making is my birthright, but it took a long, long time—decades—for me to realize that—about choices, about choosing, and about living with consequences. That journey continues. Best affirmations are welcomed. And so it is.

For My Own Good—Albuquerque, New Mexico (July 10, 2011)

R. Harold Hollis