After years of consistently normal blood pressure readings, at my physical this spring, my blood pressure came in at 130/88 — under new guidance from the American College of Cardiology and the American Heart Association, that’s now level 1 high blood pressure. 
My primary care provider casually said it could be a fluke, since I exercise, I don’t smoke, my weight is healthy … but she suggested I could look at alcohol and salt intake?
I’m cutting back on both, motivated by rampant heart disease in my dad’s family. Last week I wrote about trying to break up with my true love, salt.  Today, I’m sipping seltzer as I reflect on a more fraught topic.

I was clear about the hazards of alcohol before my first sip.

My mom was an angry drunk. Every night after work, I knew she would stop at the bar, but I didn’t know how long she’d stay. I learned to cook in part because I knew the later it was, the worse her mood would be when she finally came home, so it was best not to nag about wanting dinner.
The situation was marginally better at my dad’s, where my stepmom combined her drinking with pain pills but generally speaking, she was more likely to turn up the stereo to 11 or ramble in streams of consciousness than fly off the handle. Eventually, when she needed in-patient rehab, I knew it was more serious than liking a beer as she cooked or managing arthritis pain.
When my high school classmates started gathering in a field on Crane Road to drink, it held little appeal. I’d seen too much of the worst case scenario and knew I came by addictive genes on both sides of my family. I was a nerd anyway and was sure I’d get caught.

Eventually socializing meant drinking, so I got on board.

One weekend when I was in high school, my mom went out of town and asked my older cousin to stay with me, ostensibly to keep me safe. In reality, she invited her college friends over and provided booze for me and my friends if we didn’t snitch. That was the first time I got drunk.
In college, nearly all socializing centered on drinking: seeing bands in bars, house parties with kegs, the happy hour that offered double-shot drinks for 90 cents …
This was when wine coolers reined supreme, when sweet, soda-like flavors meant you could get the effects without actually tasting booze. I don’t think anyone loved cheap beer, it was a means to an end. Socially awkward young people desperately trying to get laid are an obvious market for a social lubricant.
Inexperienced drinkers consuming vast quantities of cheap swill meant raging hangovers were a social norm. I will never forget struggling through a calculus exam with a pounding headache and reckoning with the lingering effects of last night’s questionable choices.

Then I discovered booze that actually tasted good.

Early in our relationship, my now-husband John took me on a road trip through the vineyards of northern California. We stopped at wineries where staffers patiently explained the terminology to describe the flavors I liked and the differences in wines they were pouring.
It was revelatory. I’d always felt intimidated buying wine, guided by what I could afford more than confidence I’d like my choice. Now I held the code to begin appreciating and enjoying wine, even in my budget.
The cocktail revolution similarly transformed my relationship with mixed drinks. After years of perfunctory vodka-cranberrys, craft cocktail bars introduced me to well-executed Manhattans and old fashioneds and French 75s…
I began to nerd out on the many delicious options, which was fun but also presented a new challenge.
In my 20s, my budget constricted my drinking. I was a poor newspaper reporter so I’d put 10 bucks in my pocket and when it was gone, I was cut off. In my 30s, I started making a little more money but often, I didn’t love what I was drinking so if I didn’t want to get drunk, I’d just stop.
Now I could afford to drink and I liked what I was drinking. Uh-oh.
A friend once snarked that wine snobbery is alcoholism in a coat and tie. Conscious of my family history, I’ve thought about that often, asking myself whether I want that drink because it’s delicious, because I want to continue socializing, or if it’s the drug talking.
It’s hard to untangle because you can’t really order a virgin Manhattan or cabernet to compare the experience.

A bartender/ bar writer husband elevated and escalated drinking.

I already fancied myself a foodie who appreciated delicious food and drink when my husband, John, started working on a book about great New York bars. He took a job as a bartender to get insights from the other side of the bar.
Drinking basically became a requirement. He practiced technique at home and asked for feedback. We visited hundreds of bars to consider them for his book, having at least one drink at each, often more.
John’s twin vocations — tending bar while drawing and writing about bars — led bartenders to treat him as a peer, not simply a customer. I learned that the fraternity of “industry” professionals show each other special care.
On more than one occasion, I knew I’d had plenty when a generous host treated us to a round, and I knew the gracious move was to accept.

Setting my limits. And sticking to them.

Even before my blood pressure bad news this spring, I’d started dialing back my drinking.
Bar exploration for John’s book is done. Which is a relief, because I realized I could mitigate the physical effects of a hangover by drinking water and eating salt and starch, but there’s no escaping the emotional effects.
I so consistently feel the depressant’s lingering effects that we have a name for it: the shameover. After a night of drinking, I bolt awake before sunrise replaying every perceived social faux pas, certain I’ve offended everyone I encountered.
Avoiding the shameover and wanting to drop a few extra pounds prompted me to set a 2018 goal to not drink most nights, and to limit myself to one or two when I do.
Easier said than done.
Drinks are still delicious and we go to bars and restaurants where we often see friends. We might plan to wrap up but we’re enjoying conversation … and somehow hours pass and more drinks come.
This is my challenge: intent versus reality. Once I’ve had two drinks, a third sounds like a much better idea than it is.
Motivated by my blood pressure, I have begun telling John ahead of time what my plan is — no drinks or one, for example — so I won’t come back from the bathroom to find a beverage waiting.
I’ve also talked to John about designing me coasters like Brazilian all-you-can-eat steakhouses use to signal whether you want more meat. I could flip the “no” coaster at the start of a second drink, to let our friendly bartenders know I’ve reached my limit before my booze-addled brain gets any bad ideas. 
The trendiness of low ABV drinks might help, too, since a glass that’s mostly seltzer is obviously less troublesome than a stiff martini, but I don’t want to have six low-alcohol drinks and miss the point.
I’m able to go days or weeks without drinking. And having seen addiction up close, I’m grateful that my challenge is just enjoying myself too much.