It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to finish “Atomic Habits” before the return date, but it’s given me plenty to think about already. I alluded to it in my last entry, the need to write “something…anything… to prove to myself that I am who I want to be.” And I want to be a writer. The only way to become that is to be a person who writes.
I’d like to discuss my understanding of the what I’ve read so far, but in fair warning, I will not turn this into a research paper (or anything remotely academic or useful) by referencing the actual book. For it is an electronic copy that is on my phone that I have placed far out of my reach. Why? So I don’t succumb to the urge of picking it up every goddamn moment my mind wanders when I’m trying to write. My phone is also sitting next to my Apple Watch, to prevent me from randomly deciding to take my ECG while sitting at my desk for no reason.
From what I understand, we are an accumulation of our habits. Habits and identity are inextricably tied. Habits make, reinforce, and prove our identity. Consider then, what is your desired identity? Who or what kind of person do you want to be? Now, create habits that support your desired identity.
I want to be a writer.
I want to be a musician.
I want to be an athlete.
I want to be a polyglot.
I wish, in an entirely fruitless and meaningless way, that my 20-something self had paused to consider who she wanted to be. That 20-something MJ (though no one called me that at the time) was decidedly too drunk and confused to climb to the top of Maslow’s hierarchy. She was living with the same childhood trauma without the benefit of therapy, and life was just a kaleidoscope of dead ends and disappointments. Come to think of it, I don’t think she could’ve done any differently. I am grateful to her that she didn’t give up completely.
Now, twenty something years later — that pause is long overdue. But first, are there any identities that I have assumed that might be worth discarding?
I am an alcoholic.
That is an identity I assumed after taking a bunch of alcohol awareness quizzes that told me so, a little over five years ago. On April 1st, 2019 I armed myself with this label and cut alcohol completely out of my life. My husband was a little surprised, and probably recalled the time in 2012, when after reading “Diet for a New America” (by John Robbins, of Baskin Robbins fame) I decided to become vegetarian. A week later, in the middle of reading “Animal Liberation” (by Peter Singer), I upped the ante and said, nope, I am a vegan!
“Wait, what now? No more cheese?” he asked, forlorn.
Despite that moment of hesitation he got on board with me, and we adopted a vegan lifestyle for the next few years. Years later, with the same kind of unwavering support, he shrugged and said “Yes, dear.” I didn’t ask him to stop drinking necessarily, but he said that what he liked was the ritual of our drinking, the bonding that occurred with drinks over a charcuterie plate, tapas, or a multi-course meal with wine pairings — not the alcohol itself.
For over five years we didn’t have a single boozy drink. We substituted happy hours for coffee breaks, evolving from lattes at Starbucks to boba drinks at Ding Tea. Much like someone on heroine is turned on to methadone and becomes a different kind of addict. I find myself jonesing for a fix every few days but, in the spirit of self-discipline and for the sake of my wallet, I only allow myself two drinks a week on our regular schedule. But on vacation, it’s a free-for-all. I spent more time visiting boba shops in Barcelona and Munich than visiting anything historically significant. I take the cue from my favorite author, David Sedaris, who is defiantly unapologetic about his preference for shopping over visiting cultural institutions (especially if they don’t sell anything.)
The heart wants what it wants.
Prior to leaving for our vacation this summer, he discussed entertaining the possibility of us having some sangria with our tapas in Barcelona, even just once. We had visited Spain thrice before, pre-parenthood, and sangria was as integral to the experience as siestas and the Sagrada Familia. Sitting at home, however, I was so far removed from the habit of drinking that I couldn’t fathom having a glass of sangria without imagining how contrary it would be to the identity I wanted to defend.
“Hm,” I said carefully, “maybe they’ll have a non-alcoholic version.”
I could feel his eyes lay on me, heavy with disappointment. I shifted my gaze to my daughter, whose ears perked up at the possibility that she might get to sample this mystical drink, as I steeled myself in thought. He doesn’t have a drinking problem. I do. So, of course he doesn’t understand why I can’t just “have a glass of sangria.”
In 2014, though we still considered ourselves vegan at the time, my husband and I mutually agreed that to have our favorite foods one last time before we left NYC to move to SD: a whole chili fried fish from our favorite Thai restaurant, Jai-ya; the bone marrow appetizer from Colicchio & Sons; and a slice from Joe’s Pizza. And we had firmly decided that, because we were driving cross country, we would have to have real BBQ brisket when we were in Texas.
I was able to make space for compromise back then, why couldn’t I now?
Barcelona came and went — no sangria. Granted, we only ate tapas on two occasions during our eight-day stay. A couple of things. It’s one thing to travel and dine as a childless couple on a romantic holiday, and quite another as a family unit. Back then, alcohol had been its own nutrient group, and our meals weren’t always held to the standards of having adequate vegetable or fiber representation. As a twosome, we’d have given almost anything a try; now, the third member of our party held considerable veto power on menu selections. According to our daughter, the tapas selection read like a laundry list of things that began with “But I don’t like…!”
And perhaps a pitcher of sangria or Estrella cerveza would’ve smoothed out the wrinkles of a challenging dinner out, but the inconvenience of having to explain to our child why we were drinking alcohol now when we’d spent the last five years swearing it off far outweighed any temptation to actually do so. But, I did allow myself to order a non-alcoholic beer now and again. When she asked to taste it, I offered her the bottle.
“Eww! This is disgusting,” she said, pushing it back to me. She took a glug of her orange Fanta to cleanse her palate. I nodded, satisfied she wouldn’t ask for more.
Our return trip from Barcelona required a layover in Munich, and we had decided to hang out there for a few days. My dear friend, KH, who moved to back Austria a few years earlier, kindly offered to visit us while we were in town. In my humble opinion, any friend that offers to visit you while you’re “in town” when it requires them to drive six hours and cross a national border — is a friend worth cherishing for life. KH and her husband had suggested we meet at a beer garden in Englischen Garten on a Saturday at noon, a few days after our arrival.
I was keenly aware we would be visiting a city internationally renowned for beer. In fact, our hotel published a runner’s map for its guests, and the 5km route featured a loop around the site of Oktoberfest called Bavariaring. Jogging had become my favorite mode of exploring on my own (albeit in limited, 30-min increments so as to not alarm my family with my absence), and I padded over to the Bavariaring shortly before sunset.
Four months before the mass of humanity that would descend on this vast, open field for Oktoberfest, the park is serene and quiet. It may have appealed to my younger self to attend the famed folk festival, precariously chugging beer from a stein bigger than my head while feasting on a plate of sausage-y noms. My present self is too consumed with preserving personal space and proximity to adequate bathroom facilities to even entertain the thought.
Saturday morning. We are sitting in the nook of the hotel lobby dedicated to the buffet breakfast. For the second day in a row, I had lifted the heavy cast iron lid of the pot containing the Weißwurst(“white sausage”), daring myself to try it. I set the lid back down and return to my seat with nothing but a boiled egg and a crusty roll.
I am an adventurous eater.
I don’t know what it is, but there is something about this particular food item that bothers me. Perhaps because it goes against the very fibers of my being and everything I know to be true and sacred about sausages. Fat. Color. Char. Curb Appeal. A great looking sausage draws you in, invites you to leave your inhibitions at the door and partake wholeheartedly. A boiled, pale sausage triggers unease, challenges you to ignore your better instincts for dubious reward. (I’m still talking about food here.)
It’s almost eleven and we need to start making our way to the Biergärten. We navigate our way across the busy Hauptbanhof across the street of our hotel to fetch the bus on the other side. After we get off the designated stop, it’s a 15-minute walk to the beer garden plus additional ten spinning around the park trying to decipher the wonky GPS directions. Though the hustle to our destination is somewhat stressful, the park will afford us the greatest expanse of greenery that we’ll experience of Germany save for the view from the plane.
We arrive at the meeting spot and our friends follow almost immediately. This is my first experience rendezvous-ing with a friend in a foreign land and it is surreal. It’s disconcerting enough when I run into a surf buddy out in the wild, like at the local Trader’s Joe’s, for example. Without their wetsuit nor hair plastered to their face, the recognition is jarring enough for me to forget what I went shopping for in the first place. But here we are, KH and I, our relationship forged on the San Diego beaches, connected by a mutual love for the sport, and fortified by true friendship and respect. She is stunning with her short shorts, long, flowing blond hair, big sunglasses and a trucker cap emblazoned with the word “CALI”. Even here in landlocked Munich, it’s clear. She belongs on the beach. She belongs to the waves.
We find a table in the beer garden situation mostly in the shade, save for the sunlight streaming through breaks in the tall trees. There’s no shortage of beer gardens in Munich but this seems uniquely pretty: away from the bustle of the city, and situated by a small, quiet lake traversed only by the occasional swan or paddle boat. It is barely noon and the venue has just opened for business, but there is considerable activity in preparation for the Eurocup match between Germany and Denmark later that evening: additional television screens being hung, appointed representatives scoping out the best seats, and families with children trying to enjoy a peaceful time before the ensuing mayhem. We sit for a few minutes, the adults catching their breath and exchanging travel stories, the kids shyly squirming in their seats.
Then it was time to fetch drinks. As we make our way to the bar, I wonder how many times I had considered what I would do when this moment arrived. Or, had I just accepted myself as someone who cannot and should not ever drink again? For five years I held on to a belief that would preclude me from doing so. The belief, that I am an alcoholic, regardless of its veracity, had given me the strength to break the habit of drinking to excess, of drinking to dependence.
But five years later, and six thousand miles away, I want to believe something different.
I want to believe that I have changed. That I have done the work to prove that I am not the worst of my fears or my insecurities, but rather, an evolving work in progress that, in its human imperfection, is still vibrantly and delicately whole. I am someone who can move beyond limiting beliefs, even if at some point in history there was a life-saving purpose to them.
Now that my life has been saved, do I have the courage to truly live it?
I return to the table with a half-liter stein of Dunkel in one hand for myself, and a Weissbeer for Ken, his favorite. KH and her husband share a liter of Radler, which she informs me to be a refreshing combination of beer and lemonade. We toast each other happily, and I tentatively take my first sip. I savor the flavor and allow the bubbles to dissolve on my tongue. I listen for the voice of hardened judgment to scold me for being so weak, but my ears are full taking everything else in: the muted laughter of other guests, the clinking of glasses being bussed back to the bar, the quiet din of sunlight dappling through the trees. The moment has an almost ethereal quality and I want to hold on to it forever.
As I now write, it’s been exactly two week since that entrancing afternoon. If anyone is curious whether that one beer reopened the floodgates for drunken debauchery… it didn’t. But I did order another half-liter to accompany lunch because, when you’re having Schweinshaxe (a huge crispy German pork knuckle) and currywurst for the first time, a bottle of Mineralwasser doesn’t quite mark the occasion.
However, dining at an Italian restaurant in the Old Town later that evening, I went back to an alkoholfrei alternative. But not because I was afraid of a backslide into alcohol use disorder. Sobriety has become my habit for the last five years, one of the few that I’ve held to steadfast, like flossing every day. Though it began as a compulsion to avoid alcohol, I’d like to think it has evolved into a loving act of embracing my authentic, undiluted self. An appreciation for sobriety is now woven into the tapestry of my identity; similar to how I will never feel good about eating veal again, even though my vegan days are long behind me. (This also officially puts Weißwurst on my no-fly zone.)
Don’t get me wrong. I am still a basket case in many respects, and there are plenty of times that I fall short of my ideals. But good habits don’t demand perfection. (That’s why there are “streak freezes” in Duolingo.) There is room to breathe, room for change and circumstance. Here is where self-compassion and self-forgiveness figures in. Unfortunately, those don’t come easy for me, but I’m trying. I suspect they must be developed like any good habit, like flossing: with daily, consistent practice. Every little bit counts.
Shoot for every day, but if I miss a day it isn’t the end of the world. Just try not to miss two in a row.