On tiki-bars and the decade-long trenches with the guys.
I have a certain group of friends, a band of guys, each a witness to the other’s life, most if not all going back years. From young and restless partying, through finding and marrying the women of our dreams, to hauling each other up from mistakes, divorces and everything in between, these friendships carry a resilience, surviving decades of high times, debauchery and crises alike.
We’ve had petty fights, breaks in communication, twenty-something challenges and thirty-something exhaustion. There is a scattered and chaotic archive of gags, memes and dark humor spread across decades of text messaging, social media group chats and forgotten camera rolls. We have a private language, a shorthand stemming from years of inside jokes and distinct memories, documenting a shared life, a vast relational depth between people who’ve seen each other at their worst and celebrated their best. We’ve kept choosing each other, reinforcing the foundation between us.
This has built a complete acceptance between all of us. None are perfect and any one person comes with a long list of complicated traits and faults, but we hold nothing against the other – no one trying to change anyone, everyone free to be themselves, knowing that whatever they are, they are enough.
We went out the other night for dinner. Some started earlier with a few drinks in the tiki-bar next to the restaurant. I strategically timed for a late arrival in an effort to skip this part – I wasn’t sure how not drinking would feel around everyone, and hesitated to find out.
I walked in half an hour before our booking at the restaurant. Everybody got up to say hi, and one of the guys immediately went to pick up a drink for me at the bar. Nothing out of the ordinary. He came back with a mango juice, no alcohol. Didn’t say anything, didn’t comment on it, just handed it to me like it was any other drink. I thanked him and sat down, a little nervous, worrying how the situation would play out. Everybody was having a great time and they’d started an impromptu rum tasting. I was severely tempted to bottom three quick shots to calm my restlessness and catch up with the mood of the others.
When asked what I was drinking, my buddy answered “mango juice” for me, somebody asked if they could try it – and that was it. No one seemed bothered or said a word about it. I was surprised. It didn’t feel forced – more just matter of fact. Of course I had mango juice and not alcohol, as I quit drinking, and what was the big deal anyways.
An hour later, we were seated at the restaurant, everyone around a big round table, a splendid five-course menu pre-ordered and ready for each of us. We just needed drinks. The restaurant was chosen for its impeccable cocktails and wines. Menus were pored over, selections coordinated, everybody settling on promising options. I made my choice long before even arriving and asked for sparkling water.
Nobody batted an eye. No comments, no questions. Nothing to make me feel awkward or like the odd one out. Orders just kept going, conversation flowed, we made fun, updated each other on our lives and hung out as usual. It was liberating, and my guard was slowly coming down. Soon after, one of my friends invited us to his house for a spring party. Leaning into our forties, house parties have quietly become the superior option. Homemade food, good drinks, music tailored to our immense conflicting tastes, and a volume you can actually talk over. This particular party would include a vast array of cocktails and drinks. Everybody was immediately on board, excited for a little buzz and a fun night out after a long, cold winter. When the excitement died down, he leaned over and told me he had prepared a whole alcohol-free cocktail menu for me as well, so I shouldn’t worry. He didn’t say it like it was a chore or something he found annoying. Simply a reassurance – I was included and my choices accepted.
This night became a wonderful affirmation that the people most important to me seemed completely unaffected by my choices and still enjoyed having me around. There was an acceptance of me as a whole and not just as someone who’s fun to get drunk with.
Mixed reactions to my lifestyle choice don’t surprise me. Some of my friends react like a few weeks ago – reluctant and withdrawn, like something is off, not quite right, and they don’t know how to navigate it. But to others, a choice not to drink is not even a blip on the radar, nothing to talk about other than interest in whether I’m okay as a whole and if there is anything they can do for me.
I am relieved and thankful I experienced the latter with these friends in particular. By the time the main course was served, the temptation to drink had faded into nothing.