Last week, when I texted a group of friends to ask who, if anyone, was “doing” Dry January, the responses were hilarious and thoughtful.

“Thank you for including me on this. Of course I’m not doing Dry January,” said C, whose immunity from hangovers has long induced my envy.

“I only drink if I am going out. And I am a homebody at this time of year.” said S, adding: “Home is a teetotalers paradise right now!!”

I laughed in recognition: I haven’t had an alcoholic drink this month and have relished the feeling of being clear-headed and alert each evening—and when I wake up in the morning, too.

**

I had previously considered Dry January lame.

The hard-drinking, macho Australian culture I grew up in celebrated law-breaking drunken escapades and extreme hangovers. But lately, I’d become uncomfortably aware that my nightly habit of drinking one or two glasses of wine was over the official guidelines and I could no longer ignore the growing body of evidence that drinking any amount of alcohol is unhealthy.

While I told myself my drinking wasn’t causing any serious problems—I’ve never had a DUI, and since becoming a mother seventeen years ago, I haven’t blacked out or vomited from alcohol —I fretted about the effect it was having on me: occasionally making cringey comments I regretted the next day; sweaty, restless sleep followed by an upset tummy and headache; desperate cravings for greasy food after a few drinks; and the invisible impact on my liver and other organs.

**

My phone continued to ping with a flurry of messages, and my friends arrived at a consensus: it wasn’t too hard to ditch the habit of drinking at home—but they were all still drinking when socializing—essentially doing a modified version of Dry January known as Damp January.

C professed her desire to be “California Sober,” which means mostly abstaining from drugs and alcohol. It’s choose-your-own-adventure sobriety: A Sober Californian might take edible gummies or chocolate mushrooms and eschew alcohol, or drink only on weekends or special occasions.

I get it. As I’ve thought about my relationship with alcohol this month, I’ve found myself wrestling with several contradictory thoughts and beliefs—and they’re all related, in one way or another, to the role drinking has played in my social life.

**

Alcohol has been a constant in my life for more than three decades.

Since I began drinking at 17, it’s helped me relax after tiring, stressful days, numbed painful feelings, amped up my self-confidence at parties, and increased my ability to stay awake at social events when I’m tired.

Alcohol, as my favorite social lubricant, has done a very good job.

But now, as I approach 50, I can’t help but wonder: Can I really not talk to people at parties without the aid of a drug? Can’t I simply leave and go to bed when I want to?

Actually, I realize, I can.

I’m a grown woman who’s (usually) in control of my emotions and physical whereabouts! Those are no longer the reasons I fear socializing without alcohol.

The truth is, I take pride in my ability to fit in with the crowd in most social situations and I think of myself as someone who likes to have fun—and is fun.

But if I’m the only person at a party without a drink in my hand, who will I be?

I don’t want to be an oddball or misfit, and even less, the way sober appears in my mind’s eye: an unsmiling male undertaker wearing a dark suit, his brow creased in a frown, his demeanor evidence of his sad, lonely work.

**

It’s partly this fear that has led to the Prohibition-adjacent fantasy that’s increasingly played in my mind for the past 12 months: in my reverie, alcohol is suddenly, inexplicably, unavailable.

There are various scenarios in my daydream—everyone becomes allergic to it! or: it all evaporates!—but the upshot is always the same: alcohol would simply be gone and forgotten and there would be no choice as to whether to drink it or not.

The other reason for my fantasy is this: my daughter is now 17, the age I was when I began drinking. Soon she’ll go to college, and enter the typical alcohol experimentation years. Some of her friends might develop “real problems” and need rehab and other interventions, and all of them will likely pass out, vomit, or put themselves in danger at some point, while under the influence of alcohol.

This knowledge is fueling the intense pressure I feel to model a way of living that doesn’t rely on alcohol to manage my moods or provide false confidence that evaporates when the bottle is empty.

Each time I talk to my daughter about the dangers of alcohol and how to manage this wildly addictive, potentially deadly, yet legal and socially acceptable drug, a part of me desperately wishes it would just go away.

**

When I observe my two teenage children, I am struck by how many challenging things they do, and all the emotions they experience, without alcohol.

Children don’t have a drink to smooth a sticky situation on the playground, or to relax and reward themselves after taking a tough test. As parents, we teach them to handle difficult feelings with their words. It’s unthinkable to suggest they swig some vodka before attending a boring class or navigating the social minefields of a birthday party sleepover or middle-school dance.

And yet, I’m ashamed to say, I quake at the thought of attending a cocktail party without a glass of wine to ease my social anxiety, loosen my tongue, and keep me there beyond the point when I want to leave. Without alcohol smoothing my senses, I worry about how I’ll manage my feelings amidst all those people.

**

The text exchange with my friends segued to a different topic before I could ask the question most on my mind: what’s your drinking plan once January’s over?

I included “drink less alcohol” on my Happiness Checklist at the beginning of this year because I know too much is bad for me, but the question I’m wrestling with is: how much is right for me, now?

This February, I’m going to endeavor to expand my Teetotalers Paradise beyond the four walls of my home.

Aware I’ll need a crutch, I’ve been busily taste-testing mocktails and non-alcoholic wine, but the irony is that the drink I consider most festive is the same one I loved as a kid: a bright pink Shirley Temple festooned with an umbrella and cherry.

Taking inspiration from my children, I’m going to brave the wilds of the social scene relying on my wits, decades of life experience, and a non-alcoholic drink in my hand.

I’ll let you know how it goes.