The news has been all bad lately. I’m referring to the news about consuming alcohol. Turns out that many of those stories over the years about drinking in moderation being good for you were underwritten by the spirits industry. Now we’re being told that no amount of alcohol is safe and that even moderate consumption can increase the risk of cancer and other diseases.
I can’t say this came as a big surprise. In the same way that were I a smoker, the tobacco industry wouldn’t have needed to slap warning labels on cigarettes stating that smoking kills. I could have deduced that on my own. The human body in combination with the brain is a font of wisdom. If you smoke a couple of packs a day and can’t climb a flight of stairs your lungs are probably trying to tell you something.
Similarly, if you drink vodka or scotch, my favorite poisons, that burning sensation you experience on the way down signifies your esophagus and stomach lining in armed rebellion. Drinking water or tea is an entirely different and more user friendly experience. I feel especially bad for beer and wine drinkers. Those beverages are no longer safe, either. I’m not a wine drinker but it would make sense that wine has medicinal properties. For starters, it boasts a far lower alcohol content than hard liquor. It also possesses terroir, whatever that means. It conjures images of the French countryside or the fertile Napa Valley. And it’s extremely companionable with meat and fish.
However, none of the new, supposedly reputable science has done much to change my attitude towards drinking. I’ll admit that I’ve reduced my intake. Not every day — there are times and occasions that only a fool would tackle sober — but I’ve resorted to using a small juice glass that I fill with lots of ice. While I’m not forsaking the glorious rituals associated with cocktail hour, I like to think that I’m postponing my appointment with the mortician’s arts.
But can drinking in moderation really be that bad for you? I can point to bygone members of my own family who drank regularly and lived well into their nineties. However, all these new, disheartening meta analyses raise interesting, philosophical questions. I’ve always thought it best distilled in a line that I believed came from the movie Nashville. But I’ve also found it attributed to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, both famous boozers. Addressed to teetotalers it goes something like this: “You mean to say that the way you feel when you wake up in the morning is as good as you’re going to feel all day?”
When I review my increasingly long life I find that many happy moments were owed, to some extent, to alcohol. The first time I drank it was screwdrivers in my teens. It came at my mother’s suggestion since the orange juice disguised the taste of the vodka. In college, an excellent art history professor introduced me to gin and tonics. I transitioned to vodka on the rocks in my twenties when I realized that was the only way I could be sure that New York City bartenders weren’t stiffing me.
I suppose I could go cold turkey if necessary. But why bother? Why exert all the additional effort it would take to have a good time when a few ounces of eighty proof alcohol does the trick. I should probably offer a caveat. I’m genetically predisposed to a life of moderation. It baffles my wife that I’ve never overeaten. Similarly, I reach my limit after a couple of drinks. When others at dinner parties are just reaching orbital velocity on their third or fourth glass of wine I’m ready to call it a night.
That’s not to say I have no attachment to the sauce. When heading out for the evening I examine my pockets to make sure that I’ve taken my wallet, keys and flask, of which I own several. I think of these mini-tankards as insurance policies. My wife, again, realized after all these years that I’m not insecure. I’m self-conscious. There’s a distinction. Alcohol makes me less worried about how I’m presenting myself to others.
Based on ones’ choices at the events that I attend you’d think we were back in the era of Prohibition. Or entering a new one. The only thing on the drinks list is usually wine or sparkling water. And since I don’t drink wine — possessed of the palate of an eight-year-old it tastes like glorified vinegar to me — and water is best saved for swimming I’m essentially forced to provide my own supply.
When my older daughter left for college I gave her a flask of her own. It came with a set of commandants — among them to share — and also a subtle message. I wouldn’t have encouraged her consumption if I wasn’t confident in her ability to exercise self-control. But I also wanted to do my part to help her avoid an even graver risk. There are costs in life to underdoing it.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
