A few months ago, back at Cornell, my roommates got a little concerned when I came home trashed for the fifth night in a row. But I was out with friends, and I was just a social drinker. And then quarantine set in. I thought a few beers every night was normal. I’d have a mimosa or four in the morning just like any regular person. But after six straight weeks, I have come to a conclusion. I am not just a social drinker.
At first I was doing really well, I swear. My roommates and I were staying together in our apartment, and we would spend each night drinking a few Claws while watching Miss Congeniality, 50 First Dates, and Mean Girls on loop. And after we left to go home, we would play drinking games during Zoom lectures. But these days I’m stuck on the sofa in my childhood home, watching Chopped and playing EdwardForty hands with my little brother chilling a few seats over.
I get it. I used to make so many excuses about how I would just “drink to celebrate”. But I woke up at 2 pm and made myself a complete 2.5 course meal before remembering life is meaningless in quarantine and heading back to bed for a stress nap. I think that’s a cause for celebration. Even if celebrating means doing multiple shots alone in my bed at exactly 2:01 pm while crying to Avril Lavigne in the background.
So maybe I’m not just a social drinker. Maybe I have a “problem”. Maybe I am “lonely”. Maybe this is “harder than it seems”. This new realization has really been stressing me out. I think I’ll make myself a gin and tonic to take the edge off.