I love to quit things. It’s a point of pride. I am happy to leave the party early. I don’t particularly enjoy doing anything, so the chance to stop is always a thrill. Like most men who can no longer escape a chair without making a loud and embarrassing noise, I get a lot of my personal philosophy from Michael Mann’s Heat (1995): “Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.”
This is, of course, all bluster from me. My wife, child and annoying cavoodle would all have follow-up questions if I actually tried to live this philosophy. It was a wise choice to never give De Niro’s character a cavoodle. It’s also worth acknowledging that even if I tried to live that way, the vast majority of my 30 seconds would be spent trying to get out of the aforementioned chair. But in my heart, the principle remains true.
This is particularly the case for the various vices – smoking, drinking, drug use, anything that makes the world fun. Quitting these things is always difficult, which is what makes them worthwhile. I want to quit them before I’m told I have to quit them. I want to quit them while I’m still certain I can quit them. Even if it’s for a short stint – even if it’s just to make sure.
The first six months of this year I spent entirely sober. I’d not taken an intentional break from alcohol since I began drinking at age [REDACTED BY EDITORS]. Part of what worried me was how pervasive it had become, particularly in the pandemic years. The rest of what worries me is how long and boring every night can be when you’re sober the whole time. There are no peaks and troughs. Time just keeps on ticking.
I’d thought I would spend the entire time feeling as if I was missing out. I’d anticipated suffering. What I found instead was that I quite liked this new world.
I liked the way I felt. I liked the recycling not being so loud. I liked making people feel a little awkward when I told them I’m not drinking. Ooh, mysterious. Does this guy have mental health or a dire lack of mental health? Suddenly I’m a fun conundrum. Most shocking of all, I liked mornings. Had I been a morning person all along? It turns out every day is supposed to begin with you feeling fresh and well-rested, not as if you are paying a penance for whatever happened the night before.
Then came the sanctimony. Smugness gets a bad rap but it’s called “feeling superior” for a reason. Oh, the things I could see from my high horse. No, please, enjoy your drink. It’s fine if you need that stuff, it’s just not for me. I caught myself saying, “Oh, I don’t drink but sure,” to the police at a random breath test station. All you’re getting from me is a minty-fresh hit of Colgate’s finest, officer. OK, I will submit to a drug test but I promise I’m only high on life. Yes, I understand that talking like this is why I am being taken for a drug test.
The mission was a success. Not only could I give it up, I could love life without it. But then, how do you ever go back?
At a certain point, you come in from the cold. The time has come to have your first drink again after a long break. To start drinking again is its own journey. To remind yourself that this was a check, and that you aren’t failing yourself by returning at a moderate pace.
Suddenly, I am back. My hard-earned smugness disappears. I am the same as the rest of you scum. It feels as if I have failed, even though I never had any intention for this to be a forever ban.
Then there’s the practical dilemma of realising that I am not, as poets call it, piss fit. All of a sudden I have no constitution. I have two sips and want a nap.
And I remember there are parts of this I do really enjoy. There’s a reason this is a ritual. Friendships are forged by sitting opposite each other, properly maggotted, talking garbage. I like being overly polite to a bartender who doesn’t particularly care whether I live or die. I like drinking my way through the State of Origin until the hurting stops. I don’t like the morning, but mornings are for losers.
Which do I like more, though?
Is there only one path? Sure, moderation exists, but moderation does not exist for everyone. I have never been a moderate. I am an extremist in all things consumption.
I do not want to quit drinking for good. (I have a very well-thought-out reason for this which is as follows: “I don’t wanna.”) But I don’t love it any more. Maybe that is how we find moderation. Not out of hard-fought principle, but slowly realised boredom. I don’t need to quit to not want to start.
And so I find what I do want: I want to have the door unlocked and I want to choose not to walk through it.
• James Colley is a comedian, author and television writer from western Sydney
