I flew out in September of 1998 and we weren’t married until July 1999, time to get to know each other…and we had some serious fun in that time. We didn’t have a mortgage, or kids, and both had reasonable paying jobs. No real ‘weight of the world’ issues. His friends were incredibly welcoming, after their initial shock about our quick engagement of course. I had a week or two where I felt under stealth scrutiny but after that life-long friendships were formed. We had a tight little posse of friends and we would get together every weekend for a party in one form or another.
Now as this is the story about an alcoholic, I should point out the clear distinction of ‘having a drink’ and ‘drinking’, and sometimes even those who are not alcoholics can blur those lines. I know that my 30th birthday started with dancing on some tables, an array of shot glass concoctions and ended with my head hanging over the toilet. In fact I can’t say that my 43rd was any more graceful, better champagne and no toxic purging at the end of the night were the only two differences. But as much as I enjoy my wine, if you warned me that if I had a single sip I would lose my children and my dignity, I would never even eat a grape.