I was reading Chelsea Handler’s first book today (you may think that’s all I read because I’ve referenced her frequently, but I read “smart” books too. sometimes.) and she mentioned how she always felt weirded out when someone told her that they don’t drink. I feel the same. Telling me you don’t drink is like telling the Pope that you’ve never picked up a Bible. Not that I’m comparing myself to the Pope but he’d probably have the same reaction to a non-Bible reader as I do to people who have never had the joy of having their orange juice cut with some Grand Marnier and Champagne. The only time I’ve ever gone an extended period of time without consuming alcohol was the first week I was on South Beach. Anyone who knows me will tell you that no alcohol coupled with the exercise and eating lettuce, nuts and flavorless cuts of skinless chicken jumpstarted my path to lose 30 pounds however melted the part of my brain that controls sane behavior.  Six months into the diet I had lost all I was going to lose and counting calories had gone from a guideline to weight loss to a game to see how few calories I could eat before I passed out on my usual running path.

When someone announces that they don’t drink, they do just that, they announce it. They say it with such pride that those sucking down their vodka tonics and whiskey sours are supposed to feel shame for enjoying the drink they paid 10 dollars too much for. I don’t feel shame though. As I polish off my poison of choice (quickly, just to offend them that much more) I feel grief.

Stage 1: Denial. My first thought is, this cannot be happening to me. We are not at the bar not of my choice with this abstainer who can’t appreciate the lack of a decent wine list and name brand liquor. I think maybe that I’ve heard them wrong, so I ask, “You don’t drink?” And when they answer with a firm no and a shit-eating grin like they’ve just told me they’ve outscored me on the SAT, this nearly knocks me off my barstool. And not because I’ve just downed enough bourbon to take down a large horse. This state lasts for a few minutes while I regain my bearings and order another drink.

Stage 2: Anger. After coming to the realization that we’re stuck with this spoilsport probably for the rest of the evening because they are intent on being miserable by hanging around us, I get irritated. I ask, Who invited this self-righteous loser whose sole purpose in life is to shame a group of self-diagnosed alcoholics who are OK with the poor life decisions they make from Friday at 5 PM-Sunday around 10 PM (that’s when I usually stop drinking so I’m able to get up for work the next morning. I may be able to get up, but I’m not claiming to be a functioning employee at anytime on a Monday). I want to finish my drink and dump the ice in her purse so that her whole bag smells like Johnnie Walker. I want to take my highball glass, smash it on the ground and make him walk on it with me on piggyback because all of that weight on his back will for sure mean multiple punctures to his feet. I want them to pay for their drive-by attempt at ruining what could’ve been a perfectly mediocre evening at a less than fortunate bar. It’s bad enough that we had to come a dive that cannot afford to put toilet paper and seat covers in four of their five bathroom stalls, but the fact that we’re dragging around tee-totaling Tom just makes us a liability.

Stage 3: Bargaining. After fantasizing about throwing this individual a beating with an empty Grey Goose bottle  (because what better way to insult someone who doesn’t drink than abuse him with a three pound glass vodka bottle), I figure maybe I can convince him that joining this dark side isn’t so dark after all. I tell him that I’ll stop drinking for the next 12 minutes if he has a sip of white zinfandel.  ”It tastes like kool-aid. With a kick.” Except even kool-aid made without sugar tastes better than white zinfandel. That’s something you drink when you have 15 bucks to last you until pay day and 10 of it has to go to gas for your car. When he turns you down, you continue to haggle like a car salesman in a cheap polyester suit. I ask him what could go wrong with a little swig. I promise him a DD should one sip send him stumbling through the bar like an 18-year old spring breaker. I promise to not drink for the rest of the week if he just sucks all of liquor off the ice in my glass. Everyone can be bought for the right price. My friends snicker, giving me away and someone blurts out something about me not being able to last 12 hours without a cocktail. Others chime in and people start putting bets on how fast I’d go back on my promise to avoid alcohol. Someone’s going to win a lot of money and is not going to give me a cut of it, so I put a cease and desist order on bargaining. I retreat to my stool filled with shame at being defeated by someone with so much willpower. Cue the Charlie Brown music (if you’ve seen that one episode of Arrested Development you know what I’m talking about).

Stage 4: Depression. I’m not an angry drunk. Or a sad drunk. Or a take your top off and pee in front of strangers kind of drunk. But being defeated by a clear loser makes me a little sad. Wikipedia calls this stage the “why bother?” stage (there are some other things about death in the definition but we’re talking booze here). Instead of trying to convert this person so that he may join us another time for several rounds of drinks at a better bar, I sulk in the corner, consuming my beverage at a slower rate. The abstainer may try to console me by offering to order a Perrier in a Champagne flute and pretend it’s the real thing but that’s like using American cheese to make a quesadilla. It’s just wrong. Actually, using American cheese for anything but grilled cheese and McDonald’s cheeseburgers (and I’m talking about the cheap, one patty ones with the fake onions and one pickle) is just wrong and offensive. How did we segue into cheese? I’ll tell you one thing, people who enjoy American cheese and people who don’t drink hold about the same weight to me- you people are just weirdoes. Mostly what I get depressed about is thinking about what this person does whenever they go out with their friends. I don’t feel bad for the individual, I feel bad for their regular group of friends who are obligated to invite this dud out on every outing they have and can only hope that one day this person will accidentally taste a nice Riesling and throw caution to the wind.

Stage 5, the final stage: Acceptance. I don’t accept a non-drinker. I accept the fact that I cannot change him, and I drink the drinks he should’ve bought. And if I’m really lucky, all eight of them will be on the same tab as his corny Perrier in a champagne flute. Someone who turns down free alcohol will never be my friend and that’s why I cannot accept his status. He will never be my friend for several reasons one of which, it is wasteful to turn down free liquor. It would be like a homeless man turning down food stamps. He may not need them because he likes the rush he gets from the soup kitchen crowd where he gets his three squares but it would be helpful to have those stamps should he want to mix it up and make himself a sandwich with non-mystery meat. If you want to turn down free liquor, that’s your business but that’s not the business I’m in. He will never be my friend because he will never be able to appreciate the fact that I outdrink everyone. It is a time-honored tradition amongst my friend that I’m the first to finish my drink and that I will likely drink double what they do and still be able to leave the bar without the assistance of a wheelchair or ambulance. I accept the fact that I cannot accept you and that’s that.

This all makes me sound like a raging alcoholic, which isn’t true. I know it’s socially unacceptable to drink at work, so I don’t. However, I’m very hopeful that corporate America will go the way of Mad Men and make 10 AM scotch sessions a thing to be cherished. For now I’ll keep my stash in my secret drawer and only use dip into it on days when I wouldn’t be opposed to stepping into oncoming traffic.