As
a white heterosexual, New York City professional, you would think I
have no idea what it’s like to be part of a minority. You would be
wrong.
I
know what it’s like to endure puzzled looks and subtle digs from people
who can’t comprehend my chosen lifestyle. I constantly find myself in
awkward social situations where I’m forced to hide, or make excuses
for, my dubious identity.
I’m a non-drinker in a city full of drunks.
I am not Mormon. I am not a recovering alcoholic. And I’m certainly not pregnant. It’s
pretty simple, really: I don’t like alcohol. But try telling that to
the average, socially active New York adult, for whom drinking is as
much a part of their day-to-day life as subway rides, scaffolding and
reality television. It’s not much different than proclaiming you’re a
eunuch.
Peer pressure is most commonly associated with
adolescence, but I was largely immune to it back then due to the fact
my friends and I weren’t particularly cool. Our big indulgence during a
Spring Break trip to Hilton Head senior year of high school was getting
somebody’s dad to sneak us a case of Zima. Yet there’s only one reason
I can think of why I kept half-heartedly drinking all the way through
my twenties: Because everyone else was doing it.
Finally, one night in the summer of 2006, at the age of 30, I walked into a bar with friends, breathed in the familiar, wretched stench of week-old Budweiser and decided then and there: I’m out. No more nursing a single bottle of Miller Lite for hours while my friends ordered multiple rounds. No more ordering gin and tonics and pretending like it’s “my drink.” No more headaches and hangovers that began before I went to sleep. I retired for good.
It wasn’t until that moment that I truly appreciated
just how ubiquitous alcohol is to this city’s social culture. Suddenly
I found myself discreetly clutching an Aquafina bottle among a circle
of Sam Adams drinkers at someone’s rooftop barbeque. I found myself standing awkwardly off to the side while the rest of my
softball teammates downed victory shots during their usual post-game
slosh fests. I was the lone diner in a party of eight to put my hand
over the wine glass when the waiter came around the table.
People
in New York are constantly going to “happy hours” after work. Nearly
every bar in the city advertises happy hour specials, and they
invariably include one common theme: cheap appetizers. However, as best
I can tell, most happy hour patrons have no intention of eventually
moving to a main course. The drinking starts at 6 p.m. and ends
around…bed time. Personally,
I can only make it until about 8 or 9 before becoming consumed by one
thought and one thought only: When’s dinner?
Meanwhile, the no-drinking thing can be a hazard in the dating world. Standard first-date protocol says that man and woman “meet for a drink,” usually at a café, wine bar or lounge. This often left me in a conundrum. Obviously, I didn’t want to make the girl feel like a lush for drinking alone, so I’d usually order a glass of wine. The one time I did break out the “I don’t drink” line, my date looked at me quizzically. “Seriously?” she said. There was no second date.
And lastly, there’s the dicey issue of dinner
with friends. Believe me, there’s nothing. I
love more than dining out, but large dinner parties inevitably consume
large quantities of alcohol. Inevitably, when the check comes at the
end of the night, we’re all supposed to throw our credit cards on the
table and split it. I certainly don’t want to be the asshole that gets
out a calculator, so I end up paying not only for my share of the
appetizers but my share of everyone else’s booze.
Drinking may
be considered an “adult” activity, but the most adult decision I’ve
made was to finally stop faking my own interest in it for the sake of
fitting in.
Sadly, I’ll never get back all those hours I wasted standing against the wall in loud, crowded bars, drinking beers someone automatically ordered for me, listening to drunk strangers unload their slurred thoughts about women and Notre Dame football. But thankfully, my current circle of friends mostly enjoys cozier settings like restaurants, dive bars and peoples’ apartments. Nor do most of them mind when I order an ice water.
New York City bartenders, on the other hand, aren’t nearly as understanding.
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Fejerro
