Last night, I had a few drinks. I didn’t ‘fall off the wagon’: I never intended for my sobriety to be permanent. Having been sober for 3 months, without a particular time frame in mind, I had been thinking about reintroducing alcohol for a little while, and after my disaster half-marathon last week I had a couple of beers and felt great the next day. A week or so later, I had a glass of champagne with my family to celebrate my gorgeous new nephew’s arrival. And then last night – as I was out with some friends, and today was a rest day – I thought I would also have a drink or two. Only, last night turned out differently.
I had one beer and then switched to white wine. I stuck with white wine for the rest of the evening. I had probably 3-4 glasses. I wasn’t wasted, but I was definitely drunk. And today I feel ropey. But that’s to be expected. What I didn’t expect was the intense psychological effect of the hangover.
I was in the gym this morning, stretching, as I do every rest day, and suddenly I was overcome with self consciousness. My arms were wobbling and looked repulsive. My thigh looked enormous as I brought my leg up to stretch. My boobs were unrestrained (this bit at least was based in some truth – I didn’t have a sports bra today and was attempting downward dog in an ill-fitting balconette). My hair was too short. And the fresh dye job was too pink. I became convinced, almost instantly, that I was physically repellent. That everyone the gym was repulsed by me, wondering what the hell right I had to be there at all. I wanted more than anything else to be invisible, covered.
This doesn’t happen very often. In fact, almost never. The gym is my safe space. My happy space. Sure, sometimes I have a crisis of confidence and feel like an idiot on the treadmill. But elsewhere in the gym? No. Not in the weights area or in the squat racks; I can lift. I’m strong, I’ve got good technique. I’m happy there. Not on the grid or the astro; I may not be the strongest, or the fastest, but I’ve got grit for days. I get it done. And not on the mat; I can do yoga, and I have a solid core. Generally, I occupy my space in the gym with pride and strength.
Not today though. Today I felt like an imposter. I doubted myself and I hated my body.
I strongly suspect it was the alcohol, rather than just an off day. I took a photo afterwards and I looked fine. Tired, yes, and not amazing, but fine (see above). And the scales showed a lower number than I’ve seen in a long time. No, it was the hangover. It would seem that one or two drinks, and then going back to non-alcoholics, and I’m fine, but any more and I suffer the next day. And I don’t just mean I feel a bit queasy, I mean my self-esteem and confidence plummet, almost instantly.
I’ve talked before – although perhaps not here – about ‘pregnancy drinking’, and I think it might become my new mantra. (Bear with me.)
I know that nowadays, doctors say there’s no amount of alcohol known to be safe in pregnancy, and so they recommend total abstinence. However, when I was expecting M, just under 7 years ago, official advice was ‘1-2 units, once or twice a week’. I’m increasingly feeling that this might be the way forward for me: pregnancy drinking, so that’s what I’m going to try and stick to. Sure, there will probably be the odd night where I have more than 2 drinks, but if pregnancy drinking becomes the norm, I feel like that might be a good way to still enjoy things that I love – like good wine, or the odd craft beer or cocktail – without courting the negative side effects of increased alcohol consumption, like anxiety and low self esteem, as well as all the extra calories (from the booze itself and the toast you eat to soak it up later on). It might need a better name, though.
Perhaps I could call it the ‘mille-feuille’ approach to drinking (again, bear with me). Now, I bloody love a mille-feuille, I mean, like, I REALLY love them, but you don’t generally have one every day. And when you do have one, you don’t then have another and then another and another and another until you’ve had a whole tray of mille-feuille and you’re sick down yourself. No, you have one mille-feuille, you enjoy it, and then you move on with your life.
This is the approach I want to take with drinking. To enjoy the odd drink, but not to let it spiral so regularly.
Of course, mille-feuilles are different to alcohol. That’s obvious. But the theory is the same. The sweet spot, the middle ground between NEVER EVER DRINKING EVER AGAIN and DRINKING ALL THE BOOZE ALL THE TIME and feeling afterwards like I did this morning.
Balance.
Not generally something that comes naturally to me, to be honest, except on the mat.
Perhaps it’s time to learn.
me and the moo 