Whether we Hoos are tailgating a fall football game, dancing to our favorite student bands in the Coupe’s sun (or snow), or celebrating the end of midterms weeks on the Virg patio, there’s one common thread tying all of our favorite social events together — alcohol. Even if you don’t drink, no doubt you have noticed the drinks in your friends’ hands following them around like pesky little siblings who can’t be left alone. We are the Wahoos after all — drinking twice our body weight is tradition!
While “college kids like to drink” isn’t exactly breaking news, the US Surgeon General’s breaking news last month that alcohol is the leading preventable cause of cancer left me shocked. Health class has drilled the dangers of alcohol use into all of us since the sixth grade, but to think that going sober is the #1 way I could lower my risk of cancer? I would have never guessed. This news has made me rethink the role that alcohol plays in the UVA community, American society, and my own life.
It’s safe to say alcohol was no stranger to my upbringing. Coming from a predominantly Irish town often quipped a “quaint little drinking town with a fishing problem,” it’s only fitting that I had my first sip of alcohol when I was 14 — sorry, Mom and Dad. In the February chill of my uncle’s New Hampshire lake house, a glass of my older sister’s Barefoot Pink Moscato introduced me to the deceptive warmth of alcohol.
A couple of weeks later, my friends and I sat in some basement on the eve of my 15th birthday and hesitantly passed around some bottle of bourbon stealthily smuggled from some liquor cabinet. As the spirit burnt our innocent throats, the doors to the wonderful and woeful world of alcohol swung open wide, ready to admit its newest members.
Jump cut 7 years later — almost to the day — and wine and whiskey are still my poisons of choice. From Marg Mondays to Trin Tuesdays to Wine Wednesdays and all the weekends in between, I have taken part in my fair share of boozing here on Grounds.
First year, this meant taking a page out of my sister’s book and drinking Barefoot Pink Moscato with my hallmates in our dorm lounge while scream-singing along with the 2010 movie adaptation of the Broadway musical Les Miserables — we were really cool. Second year, it meant staying on Trin 3 til the lights came on and insisting I was “Trin’s biggest fan” every time I stumbled out of the establishment. Third year, I discovered my deep love for dancing at darties and decided day-drinking is the way to go. Now as a fourth year, I love a good Sunday winery trip or a Jameson on the rocks at Miller’s Thursday night jazz. In other words, I perfectly represent the stereotypical drinking arc of a UVA student — okay, besides the Les Mis obsession.
Flipping through these memories in my mind — and my Snapchat archives — I am proud to say I never let my drinking get out of control, but I am also willing to admit there were many, many humiliating moments along the way. From videos of me screaming for my friends down Rugby to screenshots of me shamelessly drunk texting that one guy, let’s just say that if I had a drink in one hand, I should’ve been prohibited to have my phone in the other.
While these embarrassing moments are funny in retrospect, I also have many memories that are just plain sad. Growing up, my dad always warned my sisters and me to “never drink when you’re alone and never drink when you’re sad.” I never drink alone, but in retrospect, drinking while sad was basically my M.O. for the entirety of second year. I turned to alcohol for comfort through a rough patch — a mistake many of us are guilty of committing — and looking back, it actually just sunk me further into despair.
My second year spring sorority formal is a perfect example of this problem. I didn’t have a date — I didn’t have a boyfriend, I didn’t have a situationship, I didn’t even have a crush to ask out on a dare. Instead of coping with the loneliness of going stag by dancing the night away with my friends, I drank an entire bottle of wine — you guessed it, Barefoot Pink Moscato — out of a plastic Vitamin Water bottle on the yellow-school-bus ride there. Having just finished reading “The Sun Also Rises,” I spent the rest of the night pretending I was Brett Ashley as I moped around, drowning in a mixture of self-loathing and cheap wine. I was sad before I started drinking, but I was miserable — and miserable to be around — after the alcohol seeped in.
Memories like this one are what make me take a step back to reflect upon my own drinking, and also the concept of drinking in general. Yes, a lot of my best memories from my time on Grounds involve drinking — from sharing Bold Rock pitchers in the Friday afternoon sunshine to bumping into miscellaneous friends at some pregame or another. But importantly, alcohol dragged me down during the lowest points of my college experience. Alcohol turns a tear or two into uncontrollable sobbing, it transforms a single anxious thought into a panic attack, you give it a rough night and it gives you an even rougher morning. Plus, you know, it causes cancer.
I’ll be the first to admit, I love drinking. I love the way alcohol transforms just sitting around on the couch to a special occasion like “Wednesday Wine Night.” I love the old Hollywood aesthetics of a chilled glass of whiskey or an aged red wine. I love the giggles and confessions and whispers that a couple of drinks pull out of your otherwise shy friend.
But, I’ll also be the first to admit that if I heard an entire society of people structured their social life around a drug that is classified as a depressant, dramatically increases the risk of cancer, causes nausea and headaches, and motivates decisions that not infrequently ruin relationships, careers, and lives, I would think that’s pretty crazy.
Reflections like these are what have sparked my “sober curious” era, as I like to call it. To be honest, I have probably still drank more days this semester than not, but I now only have one or two drinks at a time. Through this change, I have realized that almost all of my negative experiences associated with alcohol weren’t caused by merely drinking, they were caused by getting drunk.
By minimizing how much I drink at one time, I still get all the beneficial bubbliness of a buzz, without the emotional and physical consequences of full-fledged intoxication. I no longer scream down the street, momentarily forgetting that’s actually quite rude to everyone else around me. I no longer walk into Friday morning discussions ten minutes late because I was throwing up from the night before. I no longer cry myself to sleep over who knows what. And I still dance and laugh and love just as much.
To my surprise, the “golden zone” is truly the sweet spot after all — who would’ve thought all those Stall Seat Journal flyers and PUBS paraphernalia were right all along?
I don’t expect to become a teetotaler anytime soon, and I don’t judge those who choose to drink their little hearts out (literally). But, personally, my quality of life improved tenfold when my Saturday mornings started to consist of long walks and bird songs rather than Advil and hangxiety. I’m certainly in no position to tell people what to do with their lives, but I will say this — if you indulge in alcohol as much as I do, you might find yourself feeling better putting down the bottle, just every once in a while, and picking up your life instead.
Leave a Reply