In Praise of Drinking

In an era of ever-increasing sobriety, this GenXer remains an enthusiastic yes for the occasional craft cocktails.

That’s me with my favorite liquid friend, bourbon.

I love a perfect old fashioned.

In an age where seemingly everyone is proclaiming their sobriety — and in a town where legal weed in its myriad of smokable and edible forms seems the socially acceptable drug of choice — I’m going to take a controversial stance and proclaim my love of a cocktail, or two.

I adore the sting of the bourbon, the sweetness of the simple syrup and the soused cherry surrounding a giant single cube of ice, creating the perfect sippable adult confection. As I savor each swallow, I feel tensions ease and a sense of joy emerge. It’s a buoyant, easily accessible lift, a social lubricant, a celebratory sip.

I can’t help but love it.

I’m lucky. I prefer to partake moderately and only occasionally, just a few times per month, if that. I don’t crave it other times; I rarely drink it alone. I’m not prone to addiction.

These days, and especially at my age, I’m starting to feel like an anomaly. Yet here I am, past 50 and still a fan of the sassy sauce. Some of my very best memories have taken place while under its influence. I can’t be sad about that.

I crave craft cocktails on a first date. My preference is bourbon-based drinks, with a predilection for precious crafty cocktails with unrecognizable (at least, to me) ingredients. Make mine heady and bold and stiff. After all, first dates benefit from feeling one’s head whirl, one’s body emboldened, and one’s… ahem, resolve stiffened.

I find sharing stories over cocktails creates a special shared sense of intimacy. It forms a mutual trust, an unstated agreement to slowly disinhibit together, to soften our inner selves to be revelatory as we talk and gaze and laugh and vibe. Under the influence, I drop my guard low enough to see over it, or perhaps it becomes translucent enough to see shapes and colors through it, in both directions.

After a cocktail or two, I become more intuitive and empathic. I can still think clearly, but it heightens my ability to feel about a connection. Undercurrents come into plain sight; pheromones feel nearly tangible.

Chemicals can collide.

Through the magic of sharing spirits, I like to see if our bodies drift a bit closer, a bit too close and yet it’s the perfect distance. Will I get near enough to feel if my skin tingles at close range, and to smell their neck as they shift closer still to hear my words?

Lean in, breathe deeper, the spirits whisper to me; you’re still in control, you just have access to greater intuition, so go feel if you want to know him better; maybe you want to taste his beverage too; go see how it tastes on his lips, if you dare — and with me, I know you’ll dare.

Sigh. I miss this. I crave this. I’m feeling a sense of optimism heading toward the new year, however. I’m hopeful I’ll find a man who can make even bourbon taste better.

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That’s me and Imaginary Liz at the Crocodile with our first round of single tall TIGs in 2024. Photo is a selfie by the author.

A single tall Absolut Mandrin with soda water and a lime.

Back in the Three Imaginary Girls heyday, my standby cocktail was so steadfast that at show venues we’d frequent, I could just order a “TIG” and they knew what to pour. Crisp, citrusy, icy, and refreshing, I could barely taste the booze going down. Unlike a first date — which is languid and sensuous, and calls for a robust beverage to lubricate the evening’s unfoldings — I find weak and hydrating is best when rocking a full night out at a show. I’d drink 2–3 of these over the course of 3–4 bands in a given night, flitting about the venue under the happy haze of the nearly undetectable vodka. Packed venues get hot, even in Seattle, and especially whilst dancing or moshing or screaming along.

In recent years, I’d mostly retired the beverage, as my show-going days slowed, and as many venues no longer seem to carry Absolut vodkas. I definitely took the wisdom of the “single tall” with me to many a karaoke night, where a single tall Campari and soda or bourbon and soda not only gave me liquid courage to sing, but also helped me relax my throat and diaphragm to sing better, to access notes I couldn’t hit otherwise. Recently, I went to see a show with Imaginary Liz, a reunion show of sorts, and it included getting reacquainted with my imaginary beverage of choice.

I quickly downed two TIGs and felt: unstoppable. It was like I exuded warmth, the most radiant person in that room. I’d nearly forgotten the exhilaration of flying around a club. I hugged old friends. I sang and danced to old favorite songs, ones I haven’t heard played live in 10–20 years, enraptured. The music and camaraderie elevated me, but I can’t deny the impact of those TIG drinks on my joy receptors. I had the happiest high I’ve felt in ages.

Going to my happy place after drinking a few TIGs is like traveling to an exotic locale personalized just for me, one that’s only special if I don’t visit often, lest its magic dilute. And the whirling happy swirls of Saturday night have lingered far longer than the slight dull headache I felt the next morning. Vodka — in moderation, mixed with plenty of soda water — tends to be kind to me like that.

I’m aware of the downsides. I’m obsessed with the joy. Even with my guardrails, I can feel the impact of drinking now far more than when I was younger. I know it’s a special magic, and like most mystical gifts, it comes with a cost. So I don’t take drink lightly. I drink when I feel it will be worth it.

I know for many, there is no “worth it” available; any drink is too many drinks and the price of admission is excruciating. I’ve lost several relationships — including one of the most important ones in my life — to the dark side of alcohol. I have huge regard for its power and ability to do harm, and keep a close watch on my mind, body, and heart during and after drinking, to ensure it’s still the right choice for me.

I enthusiastically applaud those of you who’ve ditched booze in favor of better life and health choices. I recognize the immense privilege I have in my ability to revel in the effects of alcohol without falling victim to the downfalls. I’m grateful. And I intend to relish it for as long as I can.

I know many who’ve turned to weed once they give up booze. I’ve never been much for weed. I don’t like the idea of smoking and edibles bowl me over and render me stupid. Like, so stupid I’m stuperous, inert, useless. Sometimes this feels good, like if I’m crazy stressed out and want to put everything down.

I like what I carry. I rarely want to put it all down. Being sluggish doesn’t feel good; it’s not worth it, not for me. Alcohol enervates me. I’m already an extrovert by nature. Alcohol, when consumed in moderation, underlines my joy in interacting with others.

And that’s what it’s all about for me: joy.

So here we are, approaching the final days of 2025, when resolutions tend to lose their luster or get dropped altogether. Whether you are a fellow even-keeled lush, or are sober, or damp — I offer a resolution we can hopefully share: Let’s all spend this year leaning into whatever brings us a sense of joy, stability, exhilaration, and peace.

I know at least some of those resolutions will be filled for me with a cocktail glass in hand.

May you find what does it for you.

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Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

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