In December 2012, after sixty plus days of uninterrupted sobriety, I found myself in a circle of colleagues, pre-partying at my friend Geoff's house before a company Christmas party, whiskey shot in hand. It wasn't much of a secret that I'd quit drinking at that point; I'd told everyone I knew, though I hadn’t exactly explained why I’d quit drinking. That no one really batted an eye at my return to drinking isn’t the point of the story; that I drank and blew my sobriety isn’t really relevant, either. What does matter is the part where my friend Geoff —who I was supposed to go to Sicily with the following summer—said something like "thank God you started drinking again, I wasn't sure I wanted you to come to Italy if you were sober.”
I mean, he said something like that, but basically that, exactly. There's not a lot I remember from this night or this period of time in general, but Geoff’s words I remember, and I remember them because it was the first time I understood the social currency…