In five days, if I don’t drink, drug or die, I will have been in abstinent recovery for 16 years. The first few years were hard, as were the next few, and even the few after that. I know I could slip up and have a drink or a drug, but if I keep on doing what I’ve been doing, I’m likely to get what I’ve been getting: a healthy recovery, a wonderful wife and a much better life than I could have imagined back at the beginning.
Still, I’ve got to admit I’ve had a pretty easy go on the temptation side of things lately. I mean, as director of Hope for New Hampshire Recovery, no one I meet professionally is going to ask if I’d like a drink or invite me into the men’s room to do a bump or three. Likewise in my personal life, where my friends, oddly enough, know me. Except for waitresses who ask what I want to drink, then leave happily when I ask for a Diet Coke, I don’t have opportunities to slip. In the five years I’ve been at Hope, I can count on one hand’s fingers the number of times I’ve been offered anything.
(If I were a nun (and there’s a frightening use of the subjunctive case), I would spend most of the year modestly, to use hyperbolic understatement, encased in tunic, belt, scapular, veil and who knows what else. Nuns do get vacations, at least some of them do, and they can go swimming in regular old bathing suits, modest to be sure, but not unstylish. If I’m a nun in a bathing suit on a beach, and a man approaches me to strike up a conversation, do I immediately tell him I’m married to Jesus and not looking to Ashley Madison? This seems presumptuous on my part, to think every man is only interested in romance. On the other hand, do I keep this knowledge from him until he’s started to play his hand, which seems cruel?)
(Editorial Note: This seems gratuitous and misplaced. Author’s response: Thank you.)
First, dining in a restaurant alone on my first night in Morocco, I had this encounter with my waiter:
“Good Evening, Sir. What kind of beer would you like?”
“No beer, thanks. Just some water.”
(Full disclosure: I’ve had a semi-serious addiction to Diet Coke for quite a while, and I’ve sworn off the stuff for this trip.)
“We have Foster’s.”
“No thanks. Just water.”
“And Bass ale.”
“Just water.”
“Water, sir? You’re sure.”
“Just water.”
A minute later, he brought me a bottle of water, along with the wine list.
“In case you prefer wine, sir.”
Whether it’s a matter of Europeans and Americans having a reputation for drinking, or whether the waiter just wanted to fatten the bill, I don’t know. When determining the tip, though, I did include the two beers I didn’t order or drink, making me either kind or a sucker. Or both.
The second incident took place yesterday at a beautiful budget villa (pictured) with a kind young bellboy apparently assigned to watch over my every need. When I asked him where it was okay to smoke, he gave me a conspiratorial look, pulled me aside and said, “I can get you whatever you want, my friend. Anything at all.”
I asked for an ashtray.
The third and hardest temptation of Keith came last evening. I’d fallen in with a group of Australians at the pool and found them out on the veranda, killing time before dinner. My experience with Aussies is that they’re very bright, very loud and very funny. In other words, I should have been born down under. We talked about books and outdoor adventure and books and working for Google and books. Finally, I asked them if they had heard of Tim Minchin, the composer and singer of my all-time favorite Christmas song, “White Wine in the Sun.” Turns out Bonnie, a 20-something, was a huge fan of his, and he’d written and composed the songs for “Roald Dahl’s Matilda.” Bonnie then talked about “White Wine,” and we both confessed to crying the first time we heard it.
Ray, Bonnie’s dad, said, “We don’t have any white, but let me go get a couple bottles of red.”
He returned and offered me a glass, which I turned down. The group didn’t shun me or mock me or encourage me to drink. We just continued having a good time until dinner.
Sixteen years ago, I would not have believed it possible.
I’ll keep on doing what works.