Yesterday I could not shake the grey cloud that loomed over me - a feeling I’m lucky not to experience often. But yesterday I’d equate it to the closest I’ve been to what others, I imagine, would describe as depression. Strange, because despite a recent breakup, the natural ebbs and flows at work, and financial stress, etc. I’m overall really happy. Still, yesterday sucked, and I can’t tell you why.
If I’d been lying on a couch, staring at the ceiling while a row of diplomas looked down on me, the prescription would’ve been predictable: get out, take a walk, exercise, read a book.
The suggestion would not likely be: go out to an Italian restaurant on the UES (Bella Blu), sit at the bar with an old friend, and get good old-fashioned sloshed off martinis and wine. And yet, that’s exactly what I did…and I’m here to defend it.
Like most in this day and age, I have a love–hate relationship with alcohol. I like to stay fit. I have a job that’s demanding. I rue the nights when I wake up and the clock reads 3:48. But the path I’ve chosen is moderation rather than abstinence.
A few stats:
Sexual Parteners:
UCLA famously tracks behavioral trends. It’s the largest state health survey in the country. In 2021, they reported that 38% of young Californians aged 18–30 had not had a sexual partner in the prior year — a staggering 16% increase since 2011, when only 22% of teens reported the same.
Screen time:
In a similar age range, 16–24, the average screen time is 7 hours and 18 minutes — a dark statistic that some might even call light when you consider the 9-hour average for 11–14-year-olds. (The average person is awake 15 hours.)
Last night, I walked in and was greeted at the bar by a woman named Natasha, who I later learned is Venezuelan. She was so attractive that I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. She laughed back - and we were off.
“What can I get you?” she asked — a question I’d contemplated on my walk across Central Park with a bit of self-instruction: Don’t do a martini. Just have wine. You’re in a funk.
But when I looked at Natasha with that cute Venezuelan smile the only words that could come out of my mouth were:
“Martini. Gin. Plymouth. Rinse. Olives.”
Simultaneously, my friend walked in. He ordered the same. We shared a lovely salad. He had the pizza; I had the veal. We split a bottle of Barolo. We discussed work, women, and finished with an Armagnac… and okay a shot of tequila with Natasha.
As if some magic pill, the experience cured me.
Now, I’m not saying the way of the barfly is the answer to all sadness and depression certainly not. But what I am saying is: in this day and age, we need socializing. And sometimes the bar, with a bit of lubricant, is the easiest pill to swallow.
Practice moderation. Do one martini instead of two or three. But dammit, get out of the house. Befriend a bartender. Call that girl you like on your walk home.
Life is hard. Have a drink.