In Which I Go Out Sober

It's Saturday night. I haven't been out to the bars in more than a month, since before I decided to try this no-drinking thing. There's a birthday party of a casual friend and I sort of feel obligated to go, since she's always been nice to me. Mostly, I feel it's important that I attempt to socialize with my peers. "Enjoy people's company," as A. suggests. But this is the first time I'm going out to a bar where I don't plan to drink. I'm surprisingly nervous as I'm getting ready. I stand naked in front of my closet until I start getting cold, debating whether it's possible to put on an outfit that will convey, "Hello! I am young and attractive and nice. Please disregard the fact that I have a diet Coke in my hand and I feel thoroughly awkward tonight!" My clothes are not speaking much tonight, so I just put on black skinny jeans, a cream-colored tank top, my favorite new orange T-straps. Gold necklaces and my orange silk scarf. I note with some satisfaction that there are no muffin tops spilling over the waistband of my pants; maybe this won't be so bad. But I feel like a fraud, a 24-year-old channeling Methuselah. I glance at the clock and see that it's 10:30; I haven't been out this late in months. I've been to this bar several times before, and I have always gotten tipsy there. It's the Lower East Side, for crying out loud. I don't even think you're allowed to be sober in that neighborhood from the hours of 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. I will stick out like a sore thumb. The hipster police will arrest me for being a party pooper. These are the thoughts going through my head as I put on my makeup. I want to prove to myself that I can do this, though, that I am strong enough to get through a night at a bar without booze.

"Did you have enough to eat?" A. asks. I laugh a little too loudly. "It doesn't matter, does it?" I say. "It's not like I'll be drinking."

In the car going over the bridge, I mentally review conversation topics. "The weather has been fantastic these past two days, eh?" "My new job is great, thank you for asking." "This one time I moved into a new apartment on the subway because I couldn't afford movers." I debate asking the driver to turn around and take me home, but he is on his cellphone chortling with laughter and yelling joyfully in Arabic. Maybe I should start driving a livery cab.

The bar is teeming with people; apparently there are three birthday parties going on at the same time. I stand in the doorway trying not to hyperventilate. I don't like crowded spaces anyway; my typical course of action in this situation would be to hightail it to the bar and order a vodka soda. I debate leaving, just turning around and getting a cab and going home before anyone sees me. Then B. and his roommate appear through the sea of people. "Oh hi!" B. says. "We're going outside to smoke." Now here is something I can do. We stand outside smoking. I drag out the cigarette as long as possible and try not to cry. B.'s roommate is Austrian and a personal trainer. We'll call him Austria for now. Austria is probably not stupid, but he has an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent which makes everything that comes out of his mouth sound ridiculous.

"What is wrong?" Austria says. I respond, "Oh, I stopped drinking. It's sort of hard getting used to being out at the bars." Austria looks at me sympathetically. "This is your fault!" he says. B. shoots Austria a dirty look. Austria seems to realize he has misspoken and offers, "You must own it! Learn how to own the party!" This is actually good advice, but I am clearly not ready to own the party yet. Suddenly a cat runs across Norfolk Street; it's a bizarre sight. "Did I ever tell you about the time I run over cat?" Austria says. Oh, no. He obviously doesn't know he's dealing with the craziest cat lady of all time, and she is fragile tonight. This does not bode well. "Okay then! Let's go inside," B. says. I decide to bite the bullet and follow them in.

It is a zoo in the bar, no room to move. I set my sights on finding the birthday girl. She is hanging out by the DJ, so I wedge myself in on a stool next to her. We make small talk for a bit, but unfortunately the DJ area is right next to the bar and I find myself distracted, staring wistfully at the bottles of Stoli. Austria comes over and plants himself in front of me, sort of hovering over my leg. He looks at me suggestively. "I have a very bad reputation to uphold," he tells me. "With the ladies." I step outside myself for a moment and see a "choose your own adventure" unfolding before my eyes. Normally, under the influence of two or three cocktails, this would be the time to follow his lead, flirt back mercilessly, maybe end the night with an obnoxious public makeout session. I've pulled that one off before, once at this very bar in fact. But now it all seems really dumb and pointless, and I want to tell him to back off. Instead I chuckle politely and angle myself away from him and stare into space. Now I am feeling like Methuselah plus a thousand or so years. It is SO loud in here! The women here are so scantily clad! I want to jump out of my skin.

I tell B. I'm going out for another smoke and he comes with me. My lungs are burning; I've been smoking like a chimney lately and it's catching up to me. "I'm sorry," I say. "This is a lot harder than I thought it would be." B. is understanding, but he is swaying slightly and beginning to slur. We talk for a bit, shoot the shit. I'm more relaxed outside than I have been all night. But it's time to go;I can't imagine going back inside. I finish my cigarette and B. gets me a cab. Time: 12:30 a.m. I was out for less than two hours. This has to be some kind of pathetic record. I feel like I have failed at being 24 years old, at being fun, at being a normal member of New York society. Will it get easier, I wonder? Will I learn to have fun? Or should I even try?