Friday Nights

Updated: Feb 9

Okay. So the truth is that Friday nights are tough. There is no way around it.

I just wrapped up one hell of a workweek. It ended with a business meeting that included the General Manager and some jerk that keeps manslating me in the presence of our colleagues.

Naturally, this requires two large glasses of pinot noir to ease the edge off, followed by an entire bottle of full-body red to warmly slip into the weekend on a rainy Friday night. Heaven!

But, there is one problem; I am sober.

So what does a sober girl who lives in Oakland do when she has been continuously mandslated at work all week, and it's Friday night? I have no fucking idea.

Because the vino is not available, to me, here is what I did instead:

Ran home after the business meeting to three cigarettes (I do not recommend this, please do not start if you haven’t… but if you have, fuck it!). I needed to change the way I felt pronto. I hopped on the Peloton for a 60 minute 90s ride. Relief!

Halfway through the ride, a Tom Petty’s (I am learning to fly) song comes on, and boy, “am I learning to fly, but I ain't got wings! These lyrics feel so damn appropriate. I spin and spin and spin some more. Until I am drenched in sweat, and all the anxious anger has been released. Accomplished.

Hot shower and off to meet a sober girlfriend (there are so many awesome ladies within the Oakland recovery community; I feel blessed to be among them!). We go to an AA meeting in Lake Merritt named: Lushes.

It’s a large group of folks who use to party so hard on Friday nights that we all ended up coming together at a Catholic Church for a final nightcap. The speaker, a caucasian male with tattoo sleeves on both arms, is wearing a black t-shirt that reads in big white letters, “I met God, and she’s black.”

The meeting is a literature discussion meeting where the speaker shares their experience with the content of the literature as it applies to their path towards recovery. The overarching topic was around being willing to give up one's illusion of control.

As a true alcoholic, I love having a tight grip on past events and circumstances; I literally have no control over. I obsess about all the shit I did wrong and how I could have done better. It is nice to be reminded that I have to be willing to not beat myself up by rethinking and rehearsing, in my poor brain, how I could have done or been better.

“It’s progress, not perfection,” and sometimes the progress is plodding. Especially for a Friday night.


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