My friend Gail, who’s a professional chef, used to get up at five A.M. and stand in her shower obsessing about what she’d drink that night, and when she’d be able to drink, and how and how much and with whom. She did this daily, obsessing in the shower about booze every morning at five A.M. and every once in a while the light would go on—click!—and she’d realize this was crazy, a real problem, a genuine sign of dependence that had spiraled way out of control. But she could always counter that observation, always. Bad day ahead— click! Work. Stress— click, click! I’m all right, I have a job, I pay my bills, I can’t be an alcoholic— click, click, click. End of story. I’m fine.
That’s the thing about denial around alcohol: if Gail were standing there obsessing about, say, asparagus—how she’d get it, when she’d eat it, how many spears she’d have, whether anyone would smell asparagus on her breath—it might have been easier for her to realize she was losing control. But when it comes to an addictive substance like alcohol, something that alters your mind and shapes your sense of self in the world and becomes central to your ability to cope, the mind’s capacity to play with the facts can be limitless. I have my reasons, Gail would think. I know I am obsessing and I know it’s crazy but I have my reasons.
And yes, we all have our reasons. We’re bored or we’re restless or we’re depressed. We’re worried or anxious or stressed. We’re celebrating, or we’re grieving. Tomorrow. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. We’ll deal with it when things get better. That was my favorite line: I’ll drink less when things get better. So I’d do what Gail did, what all of us did: Stress, I’d think, sitting there in the stall in the Ritz Hotel ladies’ room, my head on my knees. Tough day at work. I’d semiconsciously tick through my list of nonalcoholic attributes: young, female, employed, professional. Not a problem. Can’t be a problem. Then I’d get up, splash water on my face, comb my hair, and head back to the bar. Click. (Pg.155)
Travel in Life 
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