A new way to celebrate: a sober birthday in locked-down Los Angeles
I knew that I wanted this birthday to be different. I just didn’t know I would end up spending it in lockdown.
A couple months ago I had the realization that I wanted to find a new way to celebrate my birthday this year. This would be the first birthday since I was a teenager that I wouldn’t be drinking alcohol, and I wanted to mark the occasion by doing something new. I started researching retreat centers and workshops. I saved up money and spent time obsessing over the best option. Then I found a songwriting retreat taking place in Ojai over my birthday weekend, and decided to put down a deposit. It was the perfect fit – I would get to be somewhere beautiful, spend some time alone, and also spend time being creative and meeting new people.
As the coronavirus made its way into our lives, I began to realize I wouldn’t be doing any of these things. The retreat was postponed, then cancelled. I thought maybe I could still get away to Ojai, but it became more and more clear that travel was not safe for the time being. After some initial disappointment, I decided to see this as its own opportunity to create a different kind of birthday and to set a new pattern for what it means to celebrate.
The last birthday I can remember when I didn’t have a drink or do any drugs was when I was 16. I remember spending the night with a few close friends, going to a concert in Denver and trying to make eyes with the guitarist from the front of the audience (as one does when one is 16). I remember coming home and making cake from a box mix, playing old board games and talking until after midnight, watching 8 Mile sprawled around my living room on pillows, then realizing it was 4am and we weren’t going to be able to sleep. It was the first time I’d ever stayed up all night. We went outside and walked down the street to a shopping center a few blocks away. I remember the way it felt to be outside as the sky was just starting to get light, how quiet and surreal it seemed, like the new day was a secret that was waiting just for me. We bought bagels and cream cheese, came home and watched The Breakfast Club, and finally fell asleep on the living room floor around 9am.
This memory is so vivid because it’s something I look back on as a time when I didn’t need anything to have fun, when being with my friends was more than enough, and the novelty of staying up all night was magical and rebellious all at once. In the next year, everything would change. I would get my first boyfriend, lose most of my old friendships, and start experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Things were still magical, rebellious, and exciting. But at this time the idea was formed and strongly ingrained that to have fun, you needed some kind of substance. Sure, you could just spend a night with your friends, but how much better would it be if you took ecstacy? You could just hang out by the pool, but it would be even more fun with some weed and a 6-pack of Coronas. Birthdays, New Year’s, Graduation, Fourth of July – these all became occasions to “party.” It was what made things special.
It’s not that I spent every birthday since then totally wasted. There were some that ended worse than others – making out with a creepy guy in a bar and telling my best friend that I hated her when she made me stop and go home. Bringing a girl I had just met home only to get sick in the bathroom and have her take care of me. And then there were really quite nice ones – spending the day on Catalina Island, margaritas by the water, or my 30th birthday in NYC with my husband, cocktails followed by wine followed by dessert cocktails at an Italian restaurant in the West Village. It’s not that alcohol was becoming a huge problem in my life; after all, it’s such a “normal” thing to celebrate occasions with a nice dinner and some drinks. What began to bother me was that this was so synonymous with celebration for me. That I didn’t even question that every special occasion should be marked with drinks, or question if it really even was enhancing things.
My moment of clarity was not a rock bottom. It was not dramatic. It was my and my husband Michael’s first wedding anniversary. We were back at the hotel where we got married. We had a bottle of champagne in our room, which I followed with more champagne at dinner. After dinner I was restless and didn’t want the night to end. I got annoyed that my husband didn’t want to stay and have more drinks at the bar (he is not a big drinker, and I often found myself getting irritated when I wanted to drink more than he did). Back in our room I opened a bottle of white wine from the mini bar and ordered a decadent chocolate pudding from room service. A few sips in, I felt a way of revulsion from my body. I knew drinking any more of the wine would only make me feel worse, that I was chasing a high and feeling that would not come. My husband cheerfully got sick in the bathroom – the very same bathroom he had been sick in one year ago on our wedding night after drinking whiskeys on the dance floor. It wasn’t a dramatic moment but it was a moment where I asked myself – is this really fun? Is this how I want to spend every anniversary, every special occasion, for the rest of our lives? Is this all there is?
The next morning I knew I was done. It wasn’t hard to give up alcohol itself, but it has been hard to readjust to the idea of how to celebrate. What will fill that empty space that getting buzzed occupied?
For my birthday this year, I had wanted to fill it with something big and symbolic: a journey to somewhere in nature, meditating all day, doing a workshop to better myself. But it turned out to be a simple, small, calm day. I woke up early, as I always do. Instead of using it as a day off or an excuse to sleep in, I did all the things I do in the morning that I know make me feel better: meditation, kundalini breathing exercises, journaling, and a quick workout. My dry brushing and oil massage followed by a shower, with cold water to really wake me up! Yes, I celebrate with cold showers.
Michael and I made banana pancakes and watched an episode of our current show on Hulu, then took a drive out to Malibu. Ironically, while we were on our drive we got the notification that the city had officially closed off all the beaches due to COVID-19 concerns. The beaches were eerily empty as we drove along the coast. Back at home I did my online songwriting class that I have every Friday, and afterwards had a zoom call with some family members from all over the country. It was the first time we had all been “together” since my wedding over a year ago. My cousins had me cracking up, making silly faces into the cameras. To see all their faces, even virtually, was special, and something that would never have happened were we all going about our normal lives.
In the evening Michael and I made cupcakes and cornbread while watching a livestream of Ben Gibbard, one of my favorite musicians, playing an acoustic set from his living room. We cooked a delicious meal of roasted chicken, sweet potatoes, greens and cornbread. I used my birthday as an excuse to make Michael watch the new movie of Emma with me, which was beautiful and charming. I was in bed by 10pm as usual, cuddling up next to Michael and full of gratitude. It was a normal day. It was a special day.
What I’m learning is that when you take away the thing that you thought made something special, you create more space for normal things to become special. The joy starts to creep into all the little moments. I am finding so much more pleasure in taking care of myself in small ways, brewing fresh teas, letting my meditations go longer, cooking new recipes, cleaning the kitchen at night so I can wake up with the feeling of a fresh start. The uncertainty that the coronavirus has given us has helped me to listen to my body more and take everything day by day. In this sense I’m starting to feel that every day is in fact a special occasion, and maybe the way I spend “normal” days and holidays will become more alike. Because every day I want to take the best care of myself that I can, I want to create art, and I want to connect with those I love. From this perspective, every morning becomes a small rebirth, every breath an affirmation of life, every meal a chance to be grateful. Every day is a celebration.