Why We Need to Be Glamorous When We’re Drunk

When all we have are illusions, we hold onto them for dear life

I was a frequent wine drinker, back in the day.

I liked the taste, the effect, the look and feel of the wine glass. I insisted on fancy glasses at the bar. My Chardonnay would inevitably crash when I attempted to manage my drinking from the dance floor.

I broke countless glasses, and probably got more refills than I deserved. What a pain in the ass I must’ve been for the bartenders.

My drunkenness was far from glamorous.

I never considered the importance of these fancy glasses until the other day. I realize I was trying to maintain a sense of beauty and glamor I lacked in all other areas of my life. There were very few occasions I swigged from the wine bottle, unless I was trying to hide my consumption. I drank from a wine glass any chance I got.

I fruitlessly searched for a way to feel good. Alcohol convinced me it would provide what I was seeking. I wanted attention to feel worthy and lovable.

I’d dress provocatively, glide over to the bar, and order the finest wine I could afford.

Some nights that meant Chablis from a box with a spout. I know, I was so classy. If I got lucky, a guy would saunter over and offer me another drink. I didn’t have to like them, and a lot of them were already acting like assholes upon arrival.

Anyone willing to contribute to my inebriation was satisfactory, as long as they didn’t try to grab me from their barstool. Of course, my boundaries were as blurry as my vision, so there were plenty of occasions when I got into trouble with random dudes.

Since my radar was set on finding a date, getting plastered, and scoring a line or more of cocaine, I lowered my standards considerably. I don’t think I noticed the extreme rudeness and subsequent unattractiveness in the guys I gravitated toward. Honestly, I wasn’t present for much of it or I’d have more elaborate stories to tell.

I do remember the feeling of desperation, though.

If only someone saw me, everything would be ok. I got dressed up so people would notice me. It was the 90s when tight jeans and snug and shiny tops were in style. Alcoholic women like myself made it a point to add extra pizazz when they went out, from the bold lipstick to the abundant cleavage.

The women were comrades or enemies unless they were into me. Then they were potential lovers, and everyone else disappeared. Women in bars tend to congregate like high school cliques. Bar drinking felt a lot like my teenage years. We had plenty of gossip and manipulation, as well as defense against unreasonable men. I was insulated to a degree, and at times felt a false sense of confidence and freedom.

My problems brewed beneath the surface. Under the flashy dress and elegant wine glasses, I was a mess. Getting drunk was a temporary solution to my low self-esteem and helplessness. I felt most in control, ironically, when drunk.

It wasn’t the alcohol that was the problem. It was my “ism.” It’s the feeling of incompleteness and bottomless need. It was the itch I couldn’t scratch. Nothing could satisfy me.

Another person wasn’t going to solve my problems, but I had to try. I was always looking for outside validation. If I looked sexy enough, maybe they’d love me.

I feel like I’m talking about a different person.

Who I am now is far removed from my alcoholic persona. The sober version of me doesn’t care about glamor. I don’t do my nails, I wear very little makeup, and I drink tea out of my favorite mug that says Gratitude. My clothes are casual and modest, with a relaxed and confident attitude to match.

It was never about appearance. When everything inside felt wrong, I needed my outsides to look just right. Sadly, I looked like a sad alcoholic woman. I’ve seen photos from the past, and my face reflected how sick I’d become.

I couldn’t hide behind a goblet of fine wine anymore. Bloated cheeks and bloodshot eyes aren’t glamorous, no matter how much makeup I applied.

Now I focus on what matters, staying healthy on the inside. The light returned to my eyes. I can dress up or wear my daily tank top and shorts and feel beautiful. I drink from whatever glass I want, and all is well.

There is a solution

It starts with a willingness to love yourself. My path led me to follow the tenets of a 12-step recovery group. Some of you might find another way to health and serenity.

The solution lies in recognizing happiness is an inside job. You don’t need any accoutrements. You only need to follow your heart and pay attention to the signs from your higher power.

Higher power can be the cosmos, a group of like-minded people, or source energy. I learned long ago, a higher power is anything that isn’t me. It means my ego gets set aside, in favor of humility. I couldn’t stop getting drunk until I admitted I needed help. If you think you have a problem and you can’t stop, ask for guidance. I’m living proof it’s possible to find the freedom you seek.

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