Measuring Sobriety in Smiles

Later on today, I’m going to That Thing I Go to on a Saturday to collect my eighteen-month chip. I’ll make a short speech during my share, thank everyone for helping me get this far, and then I’ll riff comedy on some subject or another. Most times people laugh, occasionally with tears streaming out of their eyes, but sometimes they’ll sit there stone-faced.

It’s what’s known in the stand-up comedy world as bombing.

But back to this achievement, which is now eighteen months long; as of today that’s five-hundred and fifty-one days.

Eighteen months is a strange amount of time to celebrate. I get it. In the AA world, I’m still new. I’m a baby who hasn’t earned his stripes yet, and there’s a whole load of time between one year and two years sober. A whole load of time in which a newcomer could throw his or her sobriety away. Eighteen months, though?

If I phoned up a buddy to small talk, and he told me he couldn’t speak right now, as he was at a restaurant celebrating his and his girlfriend’s one-and-a-half-year anniversary, and they were currently sharing a bottle of White Zinfandel, I would most likely disown that friend, on the grounds that he’d either gone insane or he’d become the type of guy that would show up to a first date holding a bouquet of flowers behind his back.

“Hey, you forget to tell me your star sign.”

If I received an invite to a party from a friend to celebrate his kid, as he or she’s turning one and a half, I’d start thinking of what I’m doing that night that meant I couldn’t go. Oh, man, I’d already planned to brush my pet giraffe’s neck pelt, and you know how long that thing takes.

But then again, when you ask a kid how old they are, and they close one eye, attempt to curl some digits into their palm as they battle to keep others straight, eventually managing to hold up three of them, and then they proclaim with pride that they’re three and a half in a voice so cute it makes you want to look around for any witnesses before you kidnap them, it makes sense they count the half years. I would. Hell, I did.

Still feels silly, though, like I’m collecting a medal for participating in a fun run, and the person who is awarding me with the medal has no idea how I placed, as he’s already looking for the next sucker he can award a cobalt medal. Do I get a medal for coming in six-hundred and fiftieth place?

This lady’s super happy about having taken part.

Eighteen months aside, I’m starting to think that length of time is the wrong metric by which to measure sobriety.

It has its uses, sure. Those milestones in early sobriety are important. When I was in early-early sobriety, crossing off those days was vital to motivating me to stay on the wagon. I’d phone my dad and tell him I was a month sober, and it really felt like something—some achievement I had to tell someone about. And it’s a thirty-one-day month, Dad. That’s really something, right? All that time and I didn’t get shitfaced once. Not even a little bit. Not that you can get a little bit shitfaced, but you know what I mean.

I’m starting to measure sobriety in the amount of progress I’m making, how close I am to being what I think a good sober person should be like. What my principles and values are and how well I am at adhering to them.

That’s great, Dan. But just tell me how many inches it is.

Though I’m not gunning for perfection. This time two years ago I got drunk every day, and any version of myself now, even if he’s grouchy, or writing a shitty blog post (like this one most certainly is), is way better than that version.

I’m also measuring my sobriety in how good my kid’s life is. How much happiness I’m giving to her. This is going to make me sound like that guy who turns up to a first date with a bouquet of roses behind his back, but wouldn’t it be better to measure my sobriety in my kid’s smiles?

Is anyone collecting their one-thousand-smile coin, today? Anyone?

Maybe not. Sounds a bit hokey now that I think about it. Might put a few people off attending, too, especially the members who don’t have kids.

I don’t have a kid, but I got two cats, though Robin and Williams can’t smile; they’re cats.

I’m over-thinking all this. Just shut up and go and collect your chip and thank everyone for helping you get there. Keep that kids-smiles shit to yourself. You’ll sound like a crazy person.

Or worse, like a guy that would drink White Zinfandel wine.

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