So, I quit. No AA meetings, no props. I simply stopped drinking there and then and never touched a drop again. I am a sober alcoholic, fine, provided I stay away from the demon drink for life. That isn’t to say I don’t miss it; I do. But I am not hopping up and down with my tongue hanging out at the first sniff of a brandy sour.
Navigating dry dating
At first, it felt strange to have nothing to take the edge off the jagged nerves of a first date. There was none of the delicious anticipation of a pre-date vermouth, which had a way of making everything feel floaty and fun. In those early days, I often wondered whether I could get through an evening without ordering a tequila shot – a shortcut to confidence. Then there were the moments when my hand would almost automatically reach for my date’s bottle of pinot grigio, hovering on the brink.
Like most things, it was a learning curve. But as I slowly broke the habit, I found that being myself brought its own kind of euphoria — one that came without the heavy thud of morning-after hangxiety.
Decades later, at 64, sobriety remains wonderful, but navigating dry dating is a different beast altogether.
The grim reality is that not everyone is enthusiastic about my teetotalism. I have discovered that for a lot of men in their 50s and 60s, sharing a bottle of red and good conversation is the glue of romance. They have been doing it for so long they don’t know how to date a woman without it. Take it away and the atmosphere can turn sour.
“But we won’t be in the same mood if you stick with the water,” one podgy businessman moaned, as I sat opposite him at a fancy Italian restaurant in Mayfair. He had insisted on ordering an expensive vintage Barolo. When I politely explained I was teetotal and asked the waiter for a sparkling water, he threw a strop. Quite frankly, his childish insistence that I have “just one small glass of wine” jangled my sober nerves. Whilst I understand it can feel a bit disconcerting, he failed to understand that as a sober alcoholic, I can’t drink, ever. And that includes on a date with him.
Others feel it’s hard to trust me. I suspect they think I am mentally tut-tutting as they order another martini and I sip my chamomile tea.
Skipping the rose-tinted glasses
To be honest, the moment a man discovers I don’t drink, it’s as if he suddenly has to face his own relationship with alcohol. I always feel that my innocent cup of herbal tea is metaphorically eye rolling at his large glass of plonk… Do I drink too much? Am I boring without it? Rather than face that truth, he projects it on to me by getting defensive or judgmental.
One man I had been FaceTiming and getting on well with, digitally, invited me to dinner. Faced with the flesh-and-blood me, he spiralled into a state of nervousness. By the time our starters were cleared, he had practically polished off a bottle of Sancerre. He became arrogant and huffy, and kept interrupting me. The final straw came outside the restaurant, when he lunged and planted a slobbery kiss on my cheek. I blocked him.
The worst are those who judge me. “There’s no such thing as one glass, I lack the sensible gene,” I tell them before we even tuck into the endive salad. It may not be the most romantic pre-date sweet talk, but it’s honest.
Even so, one recent date admitted he felt queasy at the thought of dating an ex-alcoholic. It is a bizarre brand of logic: the idea that a woman who managed to conquer her past over-drinking is somehow “morally lacking” or untrustworthy.
Their loss, I say, because despite remaining single, dry dating has been my ultimate revelation. Skipping the rosé-tinted glasses I can spot whether someone is a gentleman, timid, a crushing bore or a vain show-off, thus weeding out the wrong ’uns from the start.
And anyway, I always think that dating in midlife is less about dancing on tables, and more a process to see whether we “fit” with the other person. Dry romance swaps the Friday-night booz-a-thons for daylight encounters.
Shared experiences instead of splitting a bottle
I love a Sunday stroll in the park. There is something thrilling about feeling the warm glow of fledgling romance while huddling together on a bench, sharing a flask of hot coffee against the autumn chill.
Galleries are also a good bet. Nothing says compatibility like a shared love of Kandinsky or Matisse. Plus, wandering around an exhibition allows you to assess your date, free from the distorting lens of a predinner drink. If you think there will be an awkward silence, you can always launch into the finer points of cubism, and Picasso’s blue period.
Making this shift in mood and energy has been pivotal. As a personality, I am spontaneous and can over-gush, but I have learnt to keep the conversation light. Without alcohol, I find it easier to manage my emotions. No more “I hate my ex” rants. Instead I ask questions. Everyone loves a bit of attention, don’t they? And you would be surprised how many people love talking about themselves.
Action dates such as ten-pin bowling are also a win. They come with built-in momentum, and light-hearted rivalry that smooths over any conversational holes. Instead of the intense spotlight of a dinner, you can gently quiz them between shots, which makes it less formal and stiff.
Sometimes you realise you are poles apart the minute they start finger-wagging just because you disagree on politics or other fundamental issues. Nowadays, I don’t entertain that kind of drama. Sober me wraps it up politely, and I take my leave.
It’s all gloriously liberating. Once I realised I didn’t need to perform or try to be perfect, everything changed. Because when you take away the alcohol, you’re exposed. You have to sit there and ride out those awkward feelings. But getting through each date as yourself builds the inner confidence, that you are enough as you are. After all, Mr Right will be into the unadulterated me, not the one swinging from the chandeliers, clutching a bottle of panic prosecco.
Take one rainy day last week: I spent hours bonding with a man I met for coffee. We didn’t need to crack open a bottle to know that we got on like a house of fire. We were on the same page in terms of values, old films and laughing at our creaky knees. When he put his arm around me as we walked out, and kissed me, it proved everything I’ve learnt over the decades. Beer goggles are a poor substitute for pure chemistry – and the clarity of a sober first kiss beats a night of liquid courage every single time.
