Sober Sister

For circumstances within my control, I decided to play sober sister this weekend. Perhaps as a favour to friends who needed a chauffeuse, perhaps as a foreshadowing to the month of sobriety I'll be forced into if I don't win the challenge I made with myself, or perhaps for other reasons. Regardless, sometimes the body just needs a break.


Please note, in my hand is a pretzel, not a martini.

What surprises me as I sit here writing is the amount of clarity that comes from a weekend when party-girl-101 stays home and sends her bookish twin out in her place. Her twin is quieter, but more thoughtful with her choice of words. Her twin wakes up in the morning and remembers verbatim why she had so much to smile about. Her twin plays alligators and lions with buttery-sweet toddlers without requiring ibuprofen.



I'm great at being the life of a lackluster party, or clambering to the center of a raucous one. I honed those skills my third year of college (the same year I learned that writing french papers and drinking Private Stock did not have to be mutually exclusive events). 90% of my acquaintances are drawn to the ebullient energy I carry with me to the nightclubs. My perpetual happiness is addictive. However, what is not obvious when you first meet me is that my happiest moments are never floating at the bottom of a bottle of pinot. Intoxication is entertaining, but fleeting, just like the memories attached to it.

When my friend's cherubic two-year-old burst into uproarious laughter over my impression of an orangutan this weekend, I knew that was a memory that was actually worth holding on to.