Twenty-five days of sobriety. Perhaps not a significant enough milestone to make it worth mentioning here. I think so. Even if I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a dependency on booze, most people I know don’t, I do see each new day where alcohol is not part of a routine dose of escapism, as a small, yet appreciatable milestone.

Most of my friends have yet to comment on this ongoing sobriety challenge of mine. Some have questioned it in passing with a causal “but why?”. I think I’m still in a slightly defensive stage where whatever I reply probably sounds preachy. So be it. Like most topics that can be construed as not somehow reinforcing the image of the always resilient tough guy, any mention of even potentially misusing alcohol is still considered taboo. Especially here in the land of Vikings.

Last night while lounging on our front patio watching the sunset and hundreds of people pass by on foot, bicycle, and scooter,  I tried to envision what it would be like with a glass of chilled bourbon in my hand. I tried to remember how the euphoria (or, in everyday parlance, the release) felt when it set in and how my body and mind would have sunken into a pleasantly semi-catatonic state.

I keep telling myself that I haven’t stopped drinking just to see how long I can remain sober. I certainly want to beat my old buddy Lars’s sobriety record of 44 days. But this challenge is about something more significant that I have yet to figure out how to express in words. For now, I’m enjoying the challenge of being in charge and not a hostage with Stockholm syndrome.