Don’t Get Fried At A Cookout

Estimated read time: 14 min

Those who have survived early sobriety often warn newcomers of certain situations that could lead to relapse. The main one being taking one drink or trying just a small hit of a drug.

There are several other situations that I personally was reminded might make my recovery more difficult. I was told to make sure I didn’t take narcotic medication, even if it was prescribed. I needed to avoid hanging out at bars or spending time with old drinking and using buddies. I couldn’t try a mind-altering substance that wasn’t the one that took me down because I would eventually go back to my drug of choice and go down, again. I even bought non-alcoholic mouthwash to make sure I wasn’t tempted to take a swig.

One that I don’t remember, but I was probably told, was to avoid cookouts…

I was less than nine months sober, and in the middle of the danger zone of relapse when this particular incident took place. I had been working the steps, consistently attending meetings, and honestly not overly tempted to chuck it all and race to the gutter with a drink in one hand. Still, I was not “right-headed” by any means and had occasional struggles with a fear that I might let my guard down, give in to temptation, and try a drink.

At the time, I was married to a woman who still drank, somewhat with “impunity” (never mind the fact she had two DUIs), and she reminded me often that I was the one with the problem, not her, which I question the validity of the last part of that statement to this day. (Our marriage was sinking at the time and would be finished off long before the divorce papers were drawn). I should have been smarter, or at least wary when I was invited to join her at a cookout with some of her new-found work friends.

Don’t get ahead of me, you don’t know for sure, that the word “cookout” is South Georgian code for “get drunk and burn meat of some type on a grill.”

Okay, you’re right, from the cookouts that I’ve encountered over the years, that’s exactly what it means. Still, I was promised this event would not be that. I think, “good, church-going people” might have been thrown in there somewhere to make me “believe” this was not a drinking event.

If I ever believed there would be no drinking or a moderate to light form of drinking, that was quickly erased by the slurred welcome from the male counter-part of the couple hosting the event. He was standing at a grill with a yeti cup in his hand and offered a cooler full of beer, just in the shade of the eve of the house, as a possibility for a drink.

Now, I need to pause right here and let you guys in on a secret.  Before I left treatment, a protocol for attending events that may involve alcohol had been drilled into what little brain I have. I personally recommend this strategy today to anyone in recovery.

It is as follows:

1) Before you go, line up someone in recovery to talk to or text should you need it while you are at the event. I also suggest that you contact this person before you leave for the event, when you arrive, and when you head home. It gives your phone buddy a heads up about when he or she needs to be sure to be available for a possible panicked call.

2) Drive your own car, and if possible, drive alone. I was told this one over and over. It doesn’t matter if someone in the same house as me is going to the event, we could take two cars. (I so wish I had heeded this one).

3) Arrive a little late to the event and leave a little early. Don’t show up so early that someone decides you need to be one of the ones to get the party started, and don’t hang with the drunks at the end. (I arrived early, but in fairness, the expected time of arrival was never clear, so it was hard to gauge what was a little late or too late and obvious).

4) Either take your own drink, or keep a non-alcoholic drink you get on site in your hand at all times. My own added twist to this; make sure it does not look like a mixed drink. Earth people are very kind and if they think your club soda with a lime is gin and tonic, they will bring you the latter, and you may be off to the races again. (I brought two bottles of San Pellegrino water, which has become a favored drink of mine).

5). If anyone offers you a drink, or asks you to try his or her drink, politely, but assertively say, “No, thanks.” Go get your own refills. Earth people may think they are being funny when they bring back a rum and coke instead of an unfueled coke. Also, if you should set your drink down at a table to say hit the dance floor, get a new one. There is no guarantee the cup you pick up and gulp will be yours, which means you could get a full-on gulp of booze, and it is just good practice in the Covid era not to try someone’s backwash, accidentally.

6). If you start feeling squirrely, leave. (This works best if you follow suggestion 2, which I didn’t that particular night.) I am not sure what the definition of squirrely is, but I’m guessing it is when you start to feel restless or might be eyeing the bar at the event a little too closely.

As you can tell from the list, I was prepared-ish for the night at hand. I had a friend to text and two to call. I had my own drinks, and I was more than ready to say, no.

Back to the story. I turned down the beer and the two types of liquor that followed with ease. I made a little small talk. Admired the backyard that led to a small pond. Noted the fire pit that was ready to be set alight and sampled a great tasting stuffed jalapeno wrapped in bacon while we waited for the others to arrive.

As they did, there was an increase of booze brought by each. I was definitely going to be the only non-drinker this night, but I had no uneasy feelings. Not even when one couple arrived, saw a few people with drinks in hand, and proceeded to open their car trunk to reveal the makings on a fine mini-bar.

“We just brought a few things so we could try different shots with y’all,” the woman said, as her and her husband unloaded 15 different bottles of booze, to a gathering that included a total of 10 adults. 

I was near the pond at the time, sipping on my water and watching a great blue heron wading in the far corner. I turned to see the latest arrivals and saw a sight that set off all of my “F-it” buttons at once. The now ex-wife waved her arms around the gathering group and ushered them to the side like a mother hen hiding her chicks from a circling hawk.

The next sight I saw was similar to a football huddle, where different players poke their heads up looking to the sidelines to check for a play signaled in by the coach. Only they were staring, one at a time, at me, and I didn’t have the play book. Although the conversation was hushed I heard, “he is an alcoholic and can’t drink,” followed by a murmur of what was either sympathy, shock or disgust.

Considering the thing I did best for nearly 30 years was drink, I was a little offended by this remark.

My first thought, almost always the wrong one, was that it was time to show how well I can drink. The second thought, a little better, was, F**K OFF! By the time I reached my fifth thought, I was typing a text to the friend I had on standby. I think I mentioned something about being alone at a party with a bunch of middle-age “non-alcoholics,” who were about to get drunk. And, I at least asked what he was doing. He was watching a couple of football games and relaxing on the couch. I was a little envious at the time.

Once I got over my initial burst of anger, (Let’s be honest, I was embarrassed at being outed to people I had never met), things got better. I continued drinking water, listening to the conversation turn to less and less sober discussions, and ate a burger that was not too bad for being well-done. I texted my friend to check scores of games, or share a “genius” remark one of the Earth people said as the booze loosened their tongues.

For the first time, I watched others get drunk without leading the way, or chugging to catch up. And, it was in a way a surreal experience. The liquor-cabinet couple concocted different shots for the rest of the group to try. I joined a couple of people to play corn hole, a game I learned in treatment and later learned was yet another drinking activity.

As the sun disappeared, our chef lit the fire pit, and we all stood around staring into the flames, listening (in my case) or telling drinking stories of days past. At some point the liquor-cabinet couple forgot that I was an alcoholic and began offering shots to me. After turning down, two, I guess they decided I was a stick in the mud or something.

The Ex and I barely spoke during the “cookout,” she was busy drinking, (She had a designated driver for tonight, at least.), and laughing and talking with different people. As the conversation turned to old or recent drinking stories, I started to notice a pattern. One of the party-goers would begin talking about a time when they were plastered, and as he or she looked over at me would say, “I’m not an alcoholic or anything like that but… .”

“What followed was a range of events where a person would have to be picked up and carried to a car, or crawled across a barroom floor, or was too drunk to get off of an elevator. And, near the end, there would be the statement, “I just like to drink now and then, but I’m not an alcoholic.”

If you dear reader are a normie, or Earth person, or permanent cucumber, let me explain a few things about those of us who are not. We will never, ever, ever, ever declare a person an alcoholic based on a drinking story. We won’t declare a person who goes to meetings for 20 years an alcoholic. We generally feel like that is something you have to learn on your own, and often, the hard way. We follow that code so much that we at times watch people get sicker and sicker instead of pouring them into a car and taking them to treatment.

Secondly, a normie’s tale of drunken fun may impress other normies who are middle-aged and think it is cool to tell stories of partying like they did in their teens. But, your feeble attempts at drunken escapades don’t even register compared to the ridiculous debauchery of even a garden variety alcoholic like me. It’s like listening to a little league baseball player telling a professional player the best way to hit home runs. “Awww, you guys are soooo cute.”

Finally, alcoholics in recovery know we are alcoholics. We don’t need Earth people sharing our stories or making a scene to ensure we don’t relapse. Honestly, whether we relapse or don’t has nothing to do with what a normie like you does or doesn’t do. That’s not the way ANY of that works. We don’t control you. You don’t control us.

Despite being reminded that I was the only alcoholic there, although, ironically, the only one sober, there were only three things that really bothered me for the rest of the night besides the huddle and game plan at the start of this little adventure, which were washed away by the second drink the non-alcoholics took.

The most important is that UGA and Missouri were tied 6-6 with time running out in a mess of a game, and I didn’t even get to watch the Bulldogs pull out the win. I got the gist of the game from texting my friend who is a Missouri fan, which was kind of fun, but I am a huge UGA football fan win or lose.

The second was that at some point, after way too much booze had been poured, someone decided it would be a good idea to teach one of the people at the party to shoot a rifle because that person had never done so. This decision led me to find the bathroom inside the house until the target practicing was over.  I didn’t get sober to be shot by a drunk who is playing with a rifle.

The last issue is that at some point a discussion began about how, even though they were not alcoholics, (sigh), when they drank tequila they would take all of their clothes off. Since there may be some younger people reading this post, let me paint a picture for you…

There is a bottle of tequila at this party, without doubt. And, all the people here fall in that category of slightly overweight to shaking like a bowl fully of jelly, and most are covered in wrinkles. So I was not sure what was about to happen, but I knew it would need ironing.

In the end, the bottle of tequila never made the unsettling sight of overly buzzed and constantly professing non-alcoholics, naked–at least not by the time I was finally able to leave. About an hour after my water ran out, the Georgia game was long over, and I had made at least one phone call to another alcoholic, I was able to hit the road.

On the way back, the EX tried to explain how she was surprised they were drinking (conveniently exempting her booze breath from they), she was sure the next time we visited, they would not be, and they were good people after all. I’m sure she said a few other things, but I had already quit listening.

I was lost in the miracle that happened. I didn’t take a single drink. I didn’t even sniff a drink. Nor, did I want one. I simply followed a few suggestions to the best of my ability, and though it wasn’t perfect by any means, I didn’t put my sobriety at risk. I found in that night, what I wanted the most: just to be sober.

After all the struggles to get here, I was not ready to give up my sobriety. There was no level of anger (embarrassment), uneasiness, or nostalgia that would lead to the temptation to drink. The other times I had failed to stay sober at a “cookout” as I had planned all had one thing in common: I was trying to do it on my own. And, my Missouri-football-fan friend, and so many others, have assured me that I never have to be alone again.

For that, I am forever grateful.

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